


Remembering

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Childhood Friends, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Love, M/M, Memories, Reunion, Separation, Sleepovers, addict sherlock, army John, deleting, graduation party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2617952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have been friends for a long time, but when life forces them to go different ways, the separation is too much for Sherlock. Years later fate brings them back together, but it’s going to take more than a familiar face to make things right again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Announcement

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe. 
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments --they mean so much. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

John had spent the last two hours pacing in his dorm, tightly holding the letter in his hands. He had known it was coming, of course, but that didn't help. It was his acceptance into the army, and he himself was excited about going. It was going to be an adventure, a good experience for him, and would help him with medical school. The only downside was telling his best friend, Sherlock.

John loved him -- they had met in a chemistry class back in secondary school and had been inseperable since. Mostly because Sherlock refused to make any other friends, but John didn't mind at all. He loved having Sherlock all to himself. When he first brought up the idea of enlisting, Sherlock had laughed it off and thought he was kidding. John couldn't remember if Sherlock had actually accepted the fact, hence his nerves now.

He finally got himself out of his room and en route to Sherlock's, his hands shaking lightly as he went over what he was going to say when he got there. Not that it would matter -- he didn't see this ending well at all. When he arrived he stuffed the letter into his pocket and knocked on the door, taking deep breaths.

Something had been going on with John, Sherlock knew that. He was a little hurt that John hadn't shared it with him -- he was pretty sure that what people claimed friends were for -- but instead of concentrate on the hurt, he tried to figure it out. At the same time, though, Sherlock wasn't quite sure he really wanted to know; he had a feeling that whatever it was was going to lead to hurt. So he was torn between feeling worried, feeling curious, and just trying not to feel anything.

However, when Sherlock opened his door to John that day and saw the look on John's face, he knew he was just about to find out everything.

"Hello," John smiled. "Are you busy?"

"No, come in, you have something to tell me," Sherlock said, stepping aside and letting John in before bolting the door again.

John smiled softly, never failing to be amazed with Sherlock's deductions. They drew him in from the beginning and he never got tired of them. "I do . . . you might know what it is already," he said, sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

"Don't tell me anything until I bring the tea in," Sherlock said. He had just poured it and was letting it brew. He glanced up at John -- he looked excited, which should be good, but Sherlock couldn't shake his uncomfortable feeling.

"Okay," John agreed, sitting back more comfortably.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths. He poured the milk and carried the tea over, setting John's on the table next to the bed and sitting himself down on the chair. "Go ahead," he said, kind of wishing John wouldn't.

"Right," John said, taking his tea in both hands and sipping before he spoke. "So . . . remember when I told you I was going to enlist in the army?" he asked carefully, knowing what the subject did to Sherlock. 

Sherlock's brain flicked through memories -- when he and John had first met, everything they had done together, everything they had shared. Of course, he remembered John mentioning enlisting, but Sherlock had not wanted him to. That wasn't what Sherlock had wanted for John. Or for him. Or for him and John. But it was what John had done -- that's what John was about to tell him. And Sherlock grasped at a way to cope, though he found nothing there. "So," he said, "you're going."

John nodded, pulling out the letter. "This came today -- I leave the day after graduation," he said. "It'll be the start of my medical career, which is nice since my mum is a bit caught up with Harry and the rehab. But with everything very tech savvy now, we can text and talk on the phone and even Skype," he added quickly. 

"Sure, right," Sherlock said, taking a long drink of tea. "Of course, we can." He didn't know what else to say. This was a terrible idea, but John didn't think so and Sherlock knew it'd be wrong to try to talk him out of it or even desperately try to make him regret his choice -- he wanted to do both but he didn't. He didn't know what else to say so he didn't say anything.

John licked his lips and then looked down at the letter awkwardly. "I know you didn't want me to go. I don't like the thought of being away for a year but . . . but the talking will help and it'll be over before we know it." 

"It won't," Sherlock said. "I'm happy to talk and text or whatever. But don't pretend it will go fast, John. It won't." He stared at his tea.

John hooked his foot into the chair and pulled Sherlock closer until their knees touched. "You know that I have to go. I have to for medical school," he said quietly. "It's only one year . . ."

"Knowing is not the same as liking, John Watson," Sherlock said quietly.

John nodded. "True," he agreed. His chest felt tight and he wished he could pocket Sherlock and take him along. "I don't like it either. I don't like having to leave you -- you'll be a mess without me," he tried to tease, nudging Sherlock's knee with his own.  

"True," Sherlock said back, smiling a little. "I'll have no one to nag me to sleep and eat."

John smiled properly. "That's why I'll call. And you can send me pictures so I can be sure you're not wasting away."

"I . . . don't think I'll do so well without you, John," Sherlock said, looking back at his tea. "I've . . . grown used to having you."

John sobered a bit and looked down as well, nodding. "I know, Sherlock. It's going to be hard at first but...but you'll probably place into some crazy complicated chemistry job and start blowing things up and you won't even realise I'm gone," he said. He kept defaulting to jokes because he didn't know what else to do. He didn't know what to say to make this better.  

"Probably," Sherlock said, although he couldn't really even imagine wanting to get out of bed if he knew he wouldn't be able to see John. 

John nudged his knee again before looking down at his letter again. "Want to go out for dinner or something?"

"All right," Sherlock said. John wasn't gone yet. Until the graduation, he'd just pretend he didn't have this information. He'd just pretend he wasn't losing John.

Sherlock put on his coat. They headed out to Angelo's and sat where they always sat, ate what they always ate. But it wasn't the same. Sherlock couldn't pretend. He knew he was losing John.

The dinner was a bit awkward and as much as John tried to get Sherlock talking he only got one word answers out of him. "Sherlock, you wanna stay in my room tonight?" They were odd this way, often having sleepovers even though they were so old. They shared a bed every time, usually when something was upsetting. This seemed like the perfect thing for a sleepover. 

Sherlock tried to decide -- would it make it worse to keep making good memories, keep enjoying sharing time with John, knowing that it would soon end? Would it be easier to make a clean break? It felt odd knowing that once John left, Sherlock would be back to being on his own all the time. It's not that he didn't like being on his own -- he did, in fact, he often preferred it. But now that he'd had John in his life, he worried that without John, it'd feel different than how he used to feel when he was alone. He worried that without John, he'd just be lonely.

"All right, yeah," Sherlock said. "We could watch a film or something."

John nodded, relieved. "Okay. We can look something up on the computer," he said.

"Are you going to want to . . . talk?" Sherlock asked. "I mean, about your going, about your feelings, about mine? That kind of stuff -- will there be any of that, do you think?"

"Maybe. I want to make sure we'll be okay," John said, looking up at him.

"John, you'll definitely be okay," Sherlock said.

"We. I want to make sure you'll be okay, too." John mixed his food. He knew what Sherlock had been like before they met and he was worried.

"Why don't I just tell you now that I'll be okay and we won't have to talk about it," Sherlock said, staring down at his plate. "We're done with talking about that now, yeah?"

John sighed softly and nodded. "Okay. I won't bring it up again. But you'll write me, yeah? And talk to me on Skype?"

"I will do those things, John," Sherlock said, and while he definitely wasn't lying when he promised, there was a part of him that thought it likely that, once John left, they would never see each other again. "Shall we head to yours then?"

John nodded. He was worried that Sherlock was going to forget him. He felt it, and it scared him to death. "Do you have a movie in mind?" He asked quietly as they walked.

"No, you can pick even if you pick one I don't like," Sherlock said. He lit a cigarette even though he knew John didn't like it when he smoked.

John threw him a look but didn't say anything this time. "I'm sure I'll find something we both like," he said instead.

"John, I like this," Sherlock said, staring at the pavement ahead of him as he walked. "I thought we both liked this. Why do you want to leave it?"

John's face flushed as his chest tightened. "I don't want to leave, Sherlock. But I'm graduating and they are going to help with my career and I need that," he said quietly. He had expected this to be hard, to feel sad and nervous and scared but not guilty. 

"All right . . . I know . . . I'm sorry I said that," Sherlock said, throwing his cigarette down before John led them up to his room. "I'm sorry."

John nodded, the feeling already settling heavily in his chest. "You can get comfortable -- I just have to use the bathroom and then I'll find a movie. Or you can look. I won't be long."

Sherlock settled back onto John's bed, kicking off his shoes and pulling his legs up underneath him. He looked around John's room and thought about all the times he stayed there. How it almost felt like his room as well. Sherlock had never shared so much with someone else. Never in his life -- not even with his brother as they were growing up. He shook his head softly as if he were shaking those memories out. When John returned, he said, "You choose. Whatever you want is fine."

John changed into his pajamas and climbed up beside Sherlock, sitting close enough so their legs touched. He put the computer on each of their legs and he searched the movies. "How about The Hobbit?" he asked, looking up at him.

"That works -- it's one I've actually heard of. I read the books when I was little," Sherlock said. He slid down a little on the bed to get more comfortable. He let his arm fall close to John's. He realised he'd miss these little types of comfort as much as he'd miss the various adventures they'd been on together.

John started the movie and leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder. This was going to be harder than he thought.

Sherlock tried to let himself step into the film -- lose himself within it. But he kept finding connections between the film and his life, his life with John. This was harder to deal with than he wanted it to be. For a moment, he just let go, enjoying the feeling of John's weight on his shoulder. It was good, comfortable -- it felt like home.

John drummed his fingers on Sherlock's arm in time with the music. It was odd -- he still had a week until he left and he felt like he had to keep touching him in case he disappeared.

Sherlock settled back into watching the movie, doing his best to stay focused but soon started dozing, fighting to keep his eyes open and watch the movie.

"I'm enjoying this, John -- it's one of the better ones you've forced me to watch," Sherlock whispered, "but I'm just wondering: does it ever end? " He glanced over and smiled to show he was teasing. "I really want to make it to the end, but I'm getting sleepy."

"Me too," John murmured. He slouched down a bit more, making the computer tilt. "It's too long," he sighed.

"I'll try to stay awake," Sherlock said, "but my eyes are tired. Can you put the laptop on the chair next to the bed -- I might just listen to the end, I think."

John picked up the laptop and leaned over Sherlock's lap to put the computer on the chair. When he set it down he turned on his back, still over Sherlock's legs.

"Do you care if I get under the covers?" Sherlock said, lifting them and sliding in. Once underneath, he slipped off his shirt and trousers so he was in his pants and t-shirt since he hadn't though to bring pajamas. "I do want to hear the ending, but I might as well be ready to sleep once it's over."  
  
John smiled, settling under the covers as well. "Shh," he murmured, closing his eyes to listen better.

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the end of the film. It was a bit harder to follow when he wasn't watching at the same time, but he was feeling so very sleepy. Once the sound had stopped, he turned over to face John and whispered, "Good choice of film." And then for some reason, he slipped his arms around John's back and just kind of left them there.

John hummed his acknowledgement of that, sighing softly. He was so sleepy -- already half dozing when Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. The warmth of him being even closer settled nicely over him. He opened his eyes and was startled with how close they really were. Now that he was seeing it, he felt Sherlock's breath lightly on his lips. He was so very handsome -- girls always swooned over him before they actually spoke to him. John smiled lightly. _All mine._ And then John puckered his lips and pressed them to Sherlock's -- the kiss so light it was hardly even there.

Sherlock felt John's lips brush softly against his, and he pulled himself even closer against John. He settled his head kind of against John's shoulders and closed his eyes to sleep. And then a thought crossed his mind: he and John had just kissed. It didn't bother him, far from it, it just surprised him a little. It was unusual. But it felt nice that it had happened, it felt nice to be so close to John. Sherlock lifted his head up and this time he did the kissing, moving his mouth softly against John's as his hands moved a little on John's back. It was a little like a dream, a nice dream, maybe even a lucid dream. But he was pretty sure it was really happening.

John's hand came up to Sherlock's chest, feeling his racing heart. He didn't know if he'd ever thought of this before but he was reciprocating so easily now, and it felt very good. It felt good to have Sherlock return it.

This time Sherlock slipped his hands up underneath the back of John's shirt -- the skin was so soft, just like John's mouth. How many times had Sherlock bumped or pushed John's back but had never touched the skin? How many times had Sherlock watched John's mouth move as he spoke, watched John lick his lip while he was anxious -- yet touching John there was also new. Strange . . . but comfortable. And comforting -- yes, it was comforting. It felt like something Sherlock needed even though he hadn't previously realised the lack.

A very small voice in the back of his head was trying to warn John about what a bad idea this was. He was leaving for a year of training, and then he would be away for medical school, and by then there was an even smaller voice wondering if Sherlock was even going to be talking to him by then. The thought made him press into the kiss harder -- that seemed like the perfect reason to enjoy this now. It was so . . . them. John and Sherlock were inseparable. John and Sherlock had sleepovers, John and Sherlock shared a bed. John and Sherlock kissed sometimes. It felt like the most natural thing to do.

Sherlock dropped his mouth to John's neck and put some soft kisses there. Then he raised his head and whispered, "I'm sleepy," before kissing John once more on the mouth.

John nodded lightly. "Me too," he mumbled. "Let's sleep now." He felt almost too warm but he didn't dare move away. He dipped his head a bit, settled comfortably, and he was sleeping before he properly released his next breath. 

Sherlock pressed a kiss onto the top of John's head and then rested his own against the pillow. Soon, he too was asleep.

When John woke up the next morning he smiled at the sight of Sherlock, used to this sort of wake up image but loving it all the same. And then he remembered what else they had done. He felt his cheeks flush lightly but he forced himself to stay calm. It was fine. It was nothing to freak out about. He slipped away from Sherlock and went to the bathroom before starting the kettle for tea. 

Sherlock shifted in his sleep. Then he opened his eyes and remembered he had stayed at John's. He turned back over but John wasn't there. But he remembered that they had kissed and that made him feel nice. He wished John would come back and they could sleep again and maybe kiss a few times as well.

When the kettle boiled John poured two mugs and headed back to bed. He smiled when he saw Sherlock was up. "Hey," he said, handing him a mug. 

"Morning," Sherlock said. "Thanks for the tea." He took the mug and held it up to his face, letting the warmth make his skin damp. He took a tiny sip. "Sleep okay?"

"I did," John nodded. "How about you?"

"Better than okay, I think," he said, glancing up at John and making a little smile. "I wish we didn't have to get up. Do we? Are you sure we have to?"

"We have class and unlike you I actually need to go," John smiled. "But I wish we didn't have to either."

"Fine," Sherlock said. "I'll go. But don't expect me to enjoy it." He stood up and stretched. "I didn't bring a change of clothes -- what time is it? Do I have time to go to my place or will I just need to wear this?"

"I think you have some time," John said.

"All right," Sherlock said. "You coming with me or shall I just see you later?" He stretched again. He glanced down at John's bed and thought about the fact that it's unlikely he'd ever sleep there again. It made his stomach hurt a little.

"Let me just change and I'll walk with you," John said, fishing for new clothes. He went into the bathroom to change, brushing his teeth and ruffling his hair a bit. "Ready?"

Sherlock followed John out. "Did you do something to your hair?" he asked. "It's all . . . fluffy. Are you trying to impress someone? It looks better flatter." He lifted a hand to smooth John's hair. "I think you'll go grey soon," he muttered as they walked.

"I was just trying to get rid of the bed head," he said, flattening his hair after Sherlock.

"Well, don't ruffle it," Sherlock said. "Are you sure we've got to go to class? I'll do your homework for you if it means we can skip it."

"Don't tempt me," John grinned.

They walked quietly the rest of the way. Sherlock led them into his room and he stepped into the bathroom to use the toilet, change and brush his teeth. When he came back out, he grabbed his bag. "Are we doing something later?" he asked as they headed back out.

"I can't after class because the boys are having one last rugby game. Do you want to come? I'll be back to my room after that," he said.

"John, I think you probably already know it's unlikely I'm going to come to a rugby game with the 'boys' -- that's not really my scene, is it?" Sherlock said, glancing over and rolling his eyes. "I guess just text me when you get back if you want to do something or whatever." 

"Not to play, just to watch," John said quietly. He shrugged. "I can text you when we're all done-maybe we can watch another movie?"

"John, I know you didn't mean to play -- it's just . . . you know I'm not friends with them," Sherlock said. "I'm friends with you."

"I know, but they bring their stupid girlfriends so I just figured I'd ask," he shrugged.

"You think I'd like to hang around their girlfriends while you're running around on the grass?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, not with them," John said, hating himself for even offering. "I'll just text you when we're finished."

"All right," Sherlock said. He wished John didn't have to go to the rugby. He knew it was part of John's life, but he couldn't help it -- he wanted John to only want to be with him. Especially since John would be leaving soon: wasn't that bad enough? Couldn't Sherlock have every moment of John's time until then? He knew that was stupid and selfish so he didn't say any of it, even though it's how he felt.

John glanced over at him, feeling guilty for having plans. "Will you stay the night again?"

"Hey, look -- it's your last match," Sherlock said. "You should enjoy it. I don't want you feeling like you can't, just because of me." He felt a little guilty about feeling like such a baby. "Whenever you get back, if you feel like it, just text me and we'll talk."

"I just don't like not spending time with you when I'm going to be leaving soon," John said.

"I know, John, but you'll be leaving more than me," Sherlock said. "Don't be distracted by my charming personality -- you've got lots of things to say goodbye to before you go." Sherlock tried to smile and pushed John's arm lightly.

"Okay. Well, I will text you after," he smiled.

Sherlock smiled back. "Good. I'll just be working so whenever and whatever -- even if it's tomorrow -- that'll work for me."

John nodded, agreeing to the plan. He didn't like things being so awkward between them. "You pick a movie tonight, okay?"

"All right," Sherlock said, "if I get time, I'll think of something." He headed off to class, touching John's arm lightly as they separated.

After class, Sherlock started to walk home, stopping off at the news agents for newspapers and cigarettes. Once home, he made a cup of tea and played around on the web for a bit. He bookmarked a few movies he and John could watch. Then he read through the newspaper before getting to work on his assignments.

John's mind was wandering the whole time he was in class -- for all he was paying attention he may as well have skipped with Sherlock. When his classes were done, he met everyone on the field and they played through a rough game. John's team won but the others demanded a rematch. By the time it was over John could hardly walk back to his room. He ditched his bags and took a long shower, checking the time when he got out. It was almost midnight. His stomach dropped unpleasantly as he climbed into bed with his phone. 

_Are you still working? -JW_

Sherlock's phone woke him -- he hadn't realised he was no longer working and had fallen asleep instead. His room was now dark except for the glow of his laptop. He glanced at the clock: it was later than he had hoped it would be, but he didn't want to seem disappointed. _  
_

_Yeah. How was your match? SH_

_Forced rematch. I'm exhausted. -JW_

John hated having to send it, but he was already dozing. A movie was out of the question but he found himself hoping Sherlock would come anyways and sleep with him like the night before.

_Me too. Rain check on the film? SH_

Sherlock tried to keep his face neutral as he sent the message, even though he knew it was stupid because no one could see him. So he let himself frown because that's what he felt like doing.

_I'm sorry. I don't think I'd make it through the opening scene. Do you want to sleep over again? -JW_

_Too tired. You need your sleep. See you tomorrow? SH_

_Okay. I'm sorry things ran so long. -JW_

_Don't apologise, John. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Sleep well. SH_

Sherlock tossed his phone across his desk. He got ready for bed and got in without ever even turning a light on. He left his phone on the desk, not bothering to set his alarm.

John barely managed to set his alarm before he fell asleep, his phone falling onto the ground. Morning came much too soon. He regretted not seeing Sherlock because the next week was a long blur of appointments. John had so many meetings with school officials and army recruiters to finish the last of his paperwork, and then practices for graduation and how they would walk on and off the stage. By the time he had some free time it was the night before graduation. 

_I miss you. Can I come over? -JW_

_Sure. SH_

_Are you excited to graduate tonight? -JW_

_Not really. I kind of regret agreeing to walk. But whatever. I'm glad I'll get a chance to see you before you go. SH  
_

John didn't reply since he had now arrived at Sherlock's. He let himself in and grinned as he hung his coat. "You'll come to the after party with me too, right?" he asked, sinking down on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock didn't want to go to a party. He didn't even want to go to graduation. He wanted John to stay here in Sherlock's room with him forever. But instead, he said, "All right then. Will I know or like any person there? Except you, I mean."

"Probably not but we can take some alcohol to our own room and hang out. It'll just be nice to see everyone together before we scatter into the real world," he smiled. "Thank you for putting up with my insane need to be social," he grinned. 

Sherlock wondered if John had deliberately said our room; the phrase was both nice and sad at the same time. "I suppose you'll have lots of opportunities once you're in the Army -- I don't imagine you'll get much time to yourself," Sherlock said. He swallowed then added, "Sorry." It felt like they shouldn't talk about it, or maybe Sherlock just didn't want to talk about it. "Do we have time for lunch before we've got to get to the ceremony?"

John nodded. "Yeah, we have plenty of time. And hey, it's okay if we talk about it. Or not talk about it. I don't want things to be strange between us." How odd was it that thing causing trouble between them was not the kisses they shared but John going to the army? "With all the awful training you will be my only salvation -- you better not forget to write," he scolded playfully. Maybe mentioning that as often as possible would make Sherlock actually write to him. 

"All right," Sherlock said, though he didn't clarify precisely what he was saying all right to. They nipped down to Angelo's for lunch, though Sherlock didn't eat much. He was trying to just act like it was a normal time between them, but he knew it wasn't and was very bad at pretending otherwise. They made small talk over their food and then each headed back to their own rooms to get dressed for graduation.


	2. Graduation

John took a quick shower, put on his suit and carried the gown and cap with him as he met Sherlock again. They all got into their seats, went over the plan one more time, and then sat through the long, boring ordeal of speeches, announcements, and finally the graduation itself. John kept grinning at Sherlock when he glanced back, hoping that Sherlock wasn't driving himself too crazy up there. When it was finally over and he fought his way out of everyone trying to take pictures, he found Sherlock and pulled him into a tight hug. 

Sherlock's emotions didn't seem quite as stirred by the event as everyone else's, but he let himself put his arms around John as well. He held him for a moment and then his emotions did start to stir, so he stepped back. "I'm going to go back to my room and change -- I'll meet you at yours in a bit, yeah? I'll bring a bottle of wine -- do you want me to stop and buy you something?"

John shook his head. "Maybe bring something a little stronger than wine," he smiled, taking his cap, ruffling his hair and then flattening it out again. "I'll wait for you at mine and we can go to the party together," he said. 

Sherlock smiled and walked off, immediately lighting a cigarette. He thought about John's ruffling his hair. He thought about how handsome John was. He thought about the fact that John would be leaving tomorrow.

He stopped at the off-license and bought some vodka and a bottle of Coke. When he got back to his place, he turned on the kettle and jumped into the shower. But when he got out, he decided to skip the tea and opened his bottle of wine and poured a small glass, which he drank as he wasted a little time on the web. Then he glanced at his watch and realised he should get over to John's. He recorked the bottle and put it with his purchases into a bag, along with his toothbrush, and walked over to John's room.

John grinned when opened the door, but he didn't let Sherlock in. He came out into the hall and they set off for the party. "It's at a house just off campus, it's not very far," he said as they walked. "I called my mum and Harry ran off again," he said. 

"Sorry, John," Sherlock said, "it's like she just has to have all the attention." He glanced over at him. He knew all this was so important to John and it wasn't fair that his family had this distraction.

John shrugged. "She left because Mum was mad at her -- she married some woman she's been seeing for a few months and Mum didn't like that." 

"Odd," Sherlock said. "Look -- are you still okay to go to the party? Will the drinking bother you? I don't need to if you don't want us to. Just tell me."

John shook his head. "I do want to -- we're celebrating and it's not like Harry," he said. "Besides, I don't know when I will get to drink again after tomorrow." He nudged Sherlock's arm and smiled up at him. 

"All right then," Sherlock said as the got to the house. John led them in and they walked to the kitchen where John poured each of them a drink. Already Sherlock hated being there -- it was loud and there were people there he didn't know or like. But mainly he hated it because what he really wanted was to be with just John. He took a big gulp of his wine and followed John into the other room.

John took a big gulp of his own drink as he sank down onto an arm chair, pulling Sherlock into the arm. "I'm assuming you don't want to dance?"

"Um . . .," Sherlock looked around the room -- it was so crowded and loud he couldn't really imagine moving from where he was sitting without getting hurt or lost. "I don't think so." He smiled at John. "So do you feel different now, now that you're a graduate?" He took a drink of his wine.

John grinned. "I feel very different -- very good," he said. "Don't you feel different? Ready to take on the world?" 

"I don't feel different," Sherlock said, taking another drink. "I've always been ready to take on the world." He smiled a bit stupidly, noticing that John looked quite handsome as his cheeks reddened a bit from the alcohol.

John drained his drink, nudging Sherlock's knee. "You have to feel a little bit different," he said. He watched Sherlock too long, lingered too long on his knee, and just barely resisted leaning right over onto his thigh. 

"I'm trying not to feel sad, John," Sherlock said honestly. He drained his own drink and stood up to go get a refill.

John followed him. "Okay. Well, let's avoid all of that for now because when you see me off tomorrow there will be enough." John felt very anxious -- like he couldn't sit still. When Sherlock filled his glass he took two gulps immediately. 

Sherlock gave John an apologetic look. He clinked his glass with John's and said, "Congratulations on graduating, John Watson. Walk outside with me while I have a cigarette." He started to move through the house to get to the back garden where he hoped it would be a bit quieter.

"Oh, I thought you quit," John said, bringing the bottle of wine with him as they headed outside. 

"Well, I haven't," Sherlock said, lighting up and taking a drag before swallowing down some more wine. "Sue me," he added, smiling.

"Well, you should," John grinned, filling his cup again. He offered the bottle to Sherlock. 

"Um, get back to me when you're a doctor," Sherlock said, taking another drink. "I'm a little drunk, I think. Perhaps I should have eaten more earlier." He looked at his watch and made a face, before saying, "I don't even know why I'm looking at my watch right now, John." He giggled a bit.

John giggled with him. "I am practically a doctor," he said, reaching to take the cigarette away from him. 

"John Watson, a lit cigarette could be a lethal weapon, you should never grab at it, you could get hurt," Sherlock said, still laughing though he wasn't sure at what. The other group of people who had been smoking outside stared at him as they walked back in so he stopped laughing. "Seriously, though, John," he said more quietly, "you'll have to learn to look after yourself if you're not going to have me around to do it. For example," he moved a little closer, "what would you do if you got into a situation like this?" He grabbed John's arms and pulled them behind John's back as he pressed him against the garden's brick wall. "How would you get yourself out of this situation?" His fingers stroked John's hands as he held them.

"Well, I would fight them off. Knee to the groin, arm twisted behind their back, then wrestled to the ground. But with you . . . I'm finding it a bit hard to find the motivation for all of that," he said, gazing up at Sherlock. He tilted his head and bit his lip lightly. "It's rather nice."

Sherlock let go of John's hands, sliding his own to John's lower back and stepping in even closer. "It is, isn't it?" He dropped his head a little against the side of John's and moved their bodies back and forth. "Now we're dancing," he said softly, his voice almost a hum. "We should have danced more, John."

John moved with him, the beat pounding through the house so they could hear it faintly outside. He put his hands on Sherlock's hips, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder as they danced slowly. "We should have done a lot of things," he murmured. He closed his fingers to grip him tightly. 

Sherlock moved his mouth to John's ear, just rubbing his lips softly against it. "How long do we have to stay at this party?" he whispered.

John shivered lightly, looking up and catching his mouth in a quick kiss. "I don't care where we go. I just want to be with you," he murmured, his voice a bit thick. Why had he let himself get so busy? Why was he leaving? He should run away with Sherlock -- why hadn't he thought of that before? He was gripping Sherlock even tighter now as if any slack would make him disappear.  

"Let's go home, John," Sherlock said, stepping back and grabbing John's hand. He pulled him towards the garden gate.

John finished off the wine from the bottle before dropping it in the bushes as he allowed Sherlock to pull him along. "My room? Your room?" he grinned stupidly and hugged Sherlock again, moving to his other side and taking his hand again as they walked. He was having even more trouble staying still now. "Are you going to kiss me again?" 

"Your room is closer," Sherlock said, "and yes, I'm going to kiss you again." He squeezed John's hand as he pulled him along.

John grinned and hid his face in Sherlock's arm. He was tipsy and happy; for the first time in a long time he wasn't thinking about the army or having to leave. Only Sherlock and his lovely mouth and his hands. John squeezed Sherlock's hand. He looked up and gazed at Sherlock again as if seeing him for the first time.

"Get your keys out, you fool," Sherlock said, smiling as he waited for John to unlock his door. "Hurry up."

John's hand fumbled at the lock and he chuckled at Sherlock's impatience. When he finally got the door open he almost forgot the keys, grabbing them at the last second before closing the door. He leaned against it and smiled. "You owe me a kiss now," he said. 

Sherlock grabbed John, pulling him against his chest and then turning them both so he could push John safely onto the bed. He fell onto him and looked down, before giving John a long, open-mouthed kiss as his hands slid up John's arms and into his hair.

"Wow," John murmured, gazing up at him. "That was better than I expected." He grinned widely again before leaning up to close the space, kissing him hard and open-mouthed. He tasted like the wine and faintly of the cigarette. 

Sherlock didn't want to think because he didn't know what he was doing, if they should be doing this, what any of this meant. He just wanted to keep doing it, so he kept kissing John and tangling his fingers in John's hair.

John's hands finally moved for Sherlock's chest down to his stomach and sides and hips. He held Sherlock tightly as he came up to meet him. They were already touching, of course, what with Sherlock on top of him, but it didn't feel like it was enough. He moaned softly as they kissed, wondering in the back of his head why they hadn't been doing this all along. 

Sherlock shifted to lie by John's side so he could tangle their legs together. His hands dropped to John's hips and he pulled them against his own. He moved his mouth to John's neck, kissing and sucking the skin into his mouth.

"We should have done this a long time ago," John murmured, trying to find a way to grab Sherlock, to properly hold onto him and keep him as close as possible. 

"Shhh," Sherlock said, still kissing John's neck. He could feel an urge inside him to move and, without thinking, his hips began to rock just a little against John's.

John nodded, biting his lip to keep quiet. He talked so much when he was drunk and he didn't want to admit what was different now. The reason they were doing this now. His fear of Sherlock forgetting him spiked so suddenly that he whimpered softly. He gripped at Sherlock and bucked against him hard.  

Sherlock rolled over on top of John again, slipping in between John's legs so he could properly grind against him. "God," Sherlock moaned softly against John's skin, "it feels good."

"You feel good," John moaned, bucking up to meet his every thrust. One hand laced into Sherlock's hair and the other wrapped around his waist, holding him as they moved together. He was hard and he felt himself pressing into Sherlock's thigh. He could feel Sherlock too and he closed his eyes to focus on that, panting against Sherlock's neck.

"Take your shirt off," Sherlock whispered, already pulling at it.

John complied. "You too," he said as he finished the buttons and shrugged out of it. He dropped it onto the floor and turned back, pausing his movements long enough for Sherlock to get his own off. 

Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. He lay down on John again, skin against skin. It felt warm and good and Sherlock returned to kissing John's mouth and rocking against him.

John returned the kiss happily and eagerly. His hands came up to explore the newly exposed skin. He'd seen Sherlock shirtless a hundred times but this was different -- he could touch now and his skin was soft and warm and perfect. 

"Kiss me there," Sherlock whispered softly and he shifted a little so that John could more easily reach Sherlock's chest.

John nodded and shifted both of them so he could get on top of Sherlock. Rolling his hips in a steady rhythm, John first latched to his neck, kissing and sucking softly before making his way down. Collarbone, shoulder, and finally at his chest, John humming in between kisses.

"John," Sherlock moaned at each one of the touches. Why did they wait so long? Why did they wait until . . . he tried to turn off his mind. He didn't want to feel sad now, he wanted to feel good. John was making him feel good. He dropped his hands to John's back and stroked it softly.

John moved to his nipples, looking and blowing and rolling them lightly between his teeth. He kissed the area between them, down his sternum and back up to his neck again. He was impossibly hard, felt himself leaking as he rocked harder against Sherlock.

Sherlock was starting to feel overwhelmed by a sense of urgency. He reached down and just palmed John through his jeans, feeling that he was as hard as Sherlock was. "John," Sherlock moaned again as if he were conveying everything in just one word.

John pulled his hand away and laced their fingers, shifting his lower body a bit. When he moved down again, instead of getting Sherlock's thigh, he pushed against Sherlock's cock. "That's better," he murmured, holding both of Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock gripped John's hands and lifted his head to kiss John again. "Don't stop," he said, realising he was now panting softly, "don't stop, John, please."

John shook his head, silently promising that he wouldn't as he kissed Sherlock again. For a second he felt desperate, rutting with his clothes still on like they couldn't do it properly. But he knew why they couldn't -- knew what that would mean. He lost himself in the kiss and he moved a bit faster.

Sherlock's hand gripped John's back, holding his body against him and their hips rocked against each other. He could feel John's hardness against his own -- Jesus, it was so good and it was theirs -- it was all John and Sherlock. Like it should be.

"M'close, Sherlock . . ." John panted, moving to kiss his mouth again. He couldn't get enough of anything-the touching, the kissing, all of it. He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face into Sherlock's neck. He groaned and came, squirming and writhing harder against him as his orgasm coursed through him.

The way John just let go, just letting Sherlock be there for something so . . . intimate -- it just pushed Sherlock over the edge and he lifted his hips up against John. He let himself go as well and he felt the warm wetness against him, and he dropped himself back against the bed, pulling his arms tight around John.

John settled comfortably over him, catching his breath in quick gasps. He had let go of Sherlock's hands reluctantly and now curled them to hold Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths. Then he whispered, "I love you, John. You can say it back if you mean it but please . . . don't say anything else." He pressed his head against John's.

"I love you too," John said quietly, holding back everything else. Would Sherlock stay the whole night? Would he come along in the morning to see him off? Would he write? Call? Remember? He turned his head to bury his face into Sherlock's neck again. "I love you."

"Let's just stay like this for a bit, yeah?" Sherlock said. He'd loved to have had a shower, slip into his pajamas and curl up and sleep with John. But he didn't want to risk moving, risk this ending. He squeezed himself against John.

John nodded against him. He needed to set the alarm but didn't want to mention it. He wondered what would happen if he missed the bus and didn't go to training. He pressed into Sherlock's neck and took a deep breath. He didn't want to think about that now.

Sherlock let himself relax a bit. He let himself drowse a bit, but eventually his bladder insisted that he get up. "John," he said softly. "I've got to go to the bathroom." He slid from the bed and went to the bathroom. He splashed his face with some water and then brought two glasses of water back to the bed. "Here," he said, handing one to John. "You should drink this so you're not too hungover tomorrow."

John quickly set the alarm while Sherlock was in the bathroom. When he brought the water John drank it gratefully, making room for him on the bed. "You'll come with me, yeah?" He couldn't help asking. And he knew it was selfish because out would be hard for Sherlock, but the thought of leaving alone made him feel sad. Nothing about it was easy.

"I will," Sherlock said quietly. He slipped back into the bed and curled around John.

John held him tightly, closing his eyes. "M'sorry. Thank you," he murmured.

"It's all right," Sherlock said. "It's all right, John." He closed his eyes as well.

"Would you mind if I took my clothes off? It's a bit uncomfortable." He flushed lightly but asked anyways.

"That's fine," Sherlock said. He slipped off his trousers as well. He was starting to get really sleepy.

John took everything off, slowly helping Sherlock do the same. He curled close again and pulled the covers over them. He kept his eyes closed the whole time, just barely staying awake.

"Thanks," Sherlock said, pressing his mouth against John's cheek. It wasn't really a kiss and he wasn't even quite sure what he was thanking John for. But he let himself sink against the bed and fall to sleep. 

John hummed softly before falling asleep as well, his mind clear and quiet. He had expected nightmares from the nerves and sadness but with Sherlock here with him it seemed it was an empty fear.


	3. John Leaves

When Sherlock opened his eyes to the sound of John's alarm, he had expected his head to hurt. Which it did. But his heart hurt as well and he had no idea how to help with that pain. He turned and looked over at John.

John reached for the alarm and turned it off, flopping his arm down on the bed. "Aspirin?" He asked as he sat up, slowly getting out of bed. That's when he realised he was naked and he properly remembered the night before.

Sherlock said, "Yes, John, we're naked -- don't get worked up about it." He sat up and reached over to grab his trousers, sliding them under the covers and slipping them on. "I think I need tea more than aspirin," he said. "I'll make it while you get ready."

"I wasn't going to freak out," John mumbled, slipping into the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and took aspirin before he came out into the room again. He checked his bags, packing the last of the things he could actually bring along. It wasn't much. "My mum is supposed to come up tomorrow or the next day to get everything I can't but I don't know if she will," he told Sherlock. 

"Text me if she can't and I can at least come get it and keep it with me," Sherlock said. He handed John a mug of tea and then took a sip from his own.

"There's a lot of stuff, but it's mostly junk," John said as he sipped at his tea. "I have the important stuff so if she doesn't come, you can take anything you want," he smiled.

"Well, I think it's like a month or something and then anything left in the room gets binned. Just let me know and if she doesn't make it, I'll come over and grab whatever you need," Sherlock stared at his tea. Quite honestly he felt like crying which was such a rare feeling that he really did not know how to deal with it.

John nodded, sinking on the edge of the bed with his tea. He scooted over a bit so their knees touched.

Sherlock rested a hand on John's leg. "I guess when we get there, it'll just be a quick good bye . . ." he said, trying to imagine being surrounded by a lot of people when he was feeling . . . so much.

"I suppose that's easiest," John said quietly. He ignored his tea and leaned over onto Sherlock's arm. They only had ten minutes before he had to get to the bus stop. "I meant what I said last night," he added even quieter.

"I hope you wouldn't have said it if you hadn't mean it," Sherlock said. "I meant it."

John nodded, putting his untouched tea down and then standing reluctantly. "We should start walking slowly," he murmured.

"All right," Sherlock said. He tried to imagine the walk -- he didn't want it to be silent, but he was so unsure about what to say. He turned sharply and grabbed John's shoulders. "Thank you for being my friend, John Watson. You made school, uni . . . just everything better by being with me. Thank you."

John's eyes welled up and he pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. "You're my best friend and you've made my life so much better and I don't know what I would have done without you. I love you. Please, please don't forget me," John pleaded into his shoulder. 

"I love you, too, John," Sherlock said. "I don't want to forget you."

John squeezed him harder before pulling away. "Okay. Okay . . . we said we wouldn't make this hard," he murmured, trying to smile through it. "Come on. Tell me what you thought about the party," he said as they started walking.

"What party?" Sherlock said, trying to smile. "When I think about graduation night, I confess, I won't be thinking about any party."

John grinned. "Well, I won't either but I didn't think speaking about what we actually did would be good right now," he said.

Sherlock looked down at the ground. "In all honesty, John, speaking at all is difficult. Do you want to say something about what happened? If you want to, do," he said, "I liked it."

"I liked it to," John said quietly, looking ahead of them as they walked. "I really do wish we had done it before but maybe it would have made all this even harder." 

"No, John," Sherlock said. "Nothing could make this harder than it is."

John reached out for his hand as they walked. He stopped near the sidewalk where the bus waited, watching all the other kids with their families. John had Sherlock and that was so much better than he could have hoped for. "Now, when you set up your Skype account just keep it simple -- don't do something crazy. How about Science Boy?" he smiled softly, remembering how he first referred to Sherlock as that all those years ago in school.

"Please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I have a little more sense than that." He glanced over at the other guys waiting to get on the bus, saying goodbye to their families. "Maybe they'll think I'm your brother? But I guess brothers don't kiss, do they?" He tried to smile. He leaned in and gave John a hug. In his ear, he whispered, "I'll think of kissing you. I'll think of you."

John gripped him tightly, more afraid than ever. "Don't forget me," he said again. He couldn't help it. "I love you, Sherlock. I will think of you too -- the kissing and everything. Everything."

Sherlock squeezed John and then stepped back. He put out his hand to shake John's. He knew his eyes were wet, and he hoped he could walk away before his tears started to spill down his face. But he couldn't make his feet move.

John shook his head and pulled him into a hug. His own eyes were already watering and he squeezed them shut. "I'll miss you," he murmured, pulling away and shouldering his bag.

"Text me when you arrive," Sherlock said, "or whenever you can, I mean." He heard the wobble in his own voice. "I mean . . . we'll talk soon." He swallowed. "Try to enjoy this, John. Get everything you can from it -- experience it. But be careful as well."

John nodded as he walked backwards, not trusting himself to speak anymore. The area was clearing slowly. He climbed onto the bus slowly, keeping his eyes on Sherlock as he moved along the aisle until he found a window seat. He kept looking at Sherlock, fighting the urge to run back out, climb out of the window, or jump out of the back emergency door. This was harder that he imagined it would be and for a second he wished Sherlock hadn't come along. He raised his hand to wave and just as Sherlock waved back, the bus pulled away, taking John away. He tried to stare as long as possible.

Sherlock rushed back to his room and fell onto his bed. He cried. He hated crying so he tried to make himself stop. But there was too much . . . feeling inside him. So he opened his desk drawers and pulled out papers, assignments, notes, whatever, and began ripping them into tiny bits. The destruction helped. He didn't stop until the room was practically covered in tiny ripped pieces of paper. He stepped over them, brushed them off the bed, and got into it. He wanted to stay asleep until John returned.

But, of course, he didn't. He heard from John a few times, but he was obviously busier than either of them had expected. When John let Sherlock know his mum wouldn't be cleaning out his room, Sherlock went over and let himself in. It was strange -- so quiet. Almost like a crime scene: Sherlock knew so much had happened in this room and there were little tiny clues of all that had occurred but it was so lifeless now. He tried to look around, but now that felt uncomfortable as well, like he was snooping. The dresser drawers were empty of clothes, the desk was cleared out. Sherlock figured the dishes and things like that were meaningless -- and probably nicked from the dining halls anyway. The nightstand contained a box of tissues, which may or may not have been for dubious purposes, and a few small notebooks. He flipped through them, but they weren't diaries or journals -- just notepads without notes. Sherlock reached to the back of the drawer and felt something else. He pulled it out and found a watch -- it wasn't John's usual watch, John had been wearing that when he left. Sherlock shook it and wasn't even convinced it was working. But he slipped it into his pocket in case it had sentimental value to John.

He treasured every letter he got from John, but he couldn't face getting a Skype account. He felt like it was just be too hard to see John or hear his voice. It was hard enough hearing John's voice in his head when he read the letters -- it would just be too overwhelming to be faced with how far away he was, how separate their lives were. And eventually the letters and phone calls stopped coming. It was as much his own fault as it was the demands of the Army. It was just too painful.

Training was as hard as John had known it would be. They were out for hours -- all day -- running through drills and exercises and gun training. John wrote to Sherlock when he had time, tried calling before bed, and even started a Skype account and searched for him there. Nothing. As the year went on, his attempts dwindled. The letters went from once a week to once a month. Near the end, when they were being tested and pushed harder than ever, there was nothing. He would be home soon and it would be easier.

Eventually, Sherlock found a way to help from ruminating on John's absence, a distraction -- getting high. It kept the pain at bay. He worked hard to convince himself that that's all it was: a painkiller. Of course, he was smart enough to know how dangerous it was, ultimately how stupid it was. But, of course, once one starts, it's hard to stop -- even if one is the clever Sherlock Holmes. When he was picked up by the police, he called his brother for help, but they fought over the phone and Mycroft let him sit there until eventually his parents got him out. And he went right back to killing his pain. 

When John was finally back in London he went straight to medical school at Bart's. No one answered at Sherlock's old number. He didn't have an address and the school directory was no help. He thought about the last time he'd been with Sherlock and his heart hurt -- he missed him so much. But he was out of options. He didn't know where to look any more. 

The next time Sherlock was arrested, he at least had enough sense to swallow his pride during the phone call to his brother. As they left the station, Mycroft turned to Sherlock and said, "John's gone now, brother, it's time to grow up."

Sherlock was trapped in Mycroft's car and, knowing his brother, he'd probably take him straight back to jail if Sherlock snapped at him. So he bit his tongue.

"I can help you, but only if you accept that you are no longer a child, but a grown man. I need you to say the words and I will help you," Mycroft said.

"And how are you planning to help, dear brother?"  
  
"Say the words and I'll let you know." 

"Fine," Sherlock said. "I am a grown up." Even as the words came out, he realised he didn't actually believe it. When he was small, he hadn't really been a child -- at least certainly not like other children. Precocious was the way polite people described him, but he was too adult-like to properly be a child. Until he met John. John had made him feel normal, or at least okay, being the way he was.

Then John left. And it was like Sherlock had regressed to the child he'd never been.

Mycroft made a little cough. "It doesn't count if you don't mean, Sherlock. Can you at least say you'll try to be a grown up and let me help you?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, defeated. Because he felt defeated. "I'll try." He glanced out the window. "Where are you taking me?"

"You're going to rehab, Sherlock. Like a grown up in trouble would do."

They rode the rest of the way in silence. When they pulled into the car park, Mycroft leaned over and whispered to Sherlock. "Undoubtedly they will attempt to fill your head with therapy-speak. It's meaningless -- you and I both know that, that's not why you're here. You need to get clean, detox, and they can help you do that safely here. You have my permission to ignore their mumbo-jumbo."  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"But I've got one little bit of self-help advice for you that will work," Mycroft said, staring out the window. "You were in school for many years, Sherlock, you were taught many things. Can you tell me every fact you ever learned? No, you cannot. Because our brains are different than normal people's. We keep them tidy. We clean out what is not needed, what doesn't help, to make room for what is useful." He turned now to look straight at Sherlock. "John Watson is not helping you now. If anything he's hurting you. So it's time to tidy up, Sherlock, it's time to delete what is no longer needed." He sat back in his seat. "When the therapists ask you about what upset you so much to turn to drugs, you're going to find you do not have an answer. Because the upset -- and the person who caused it -- has now been deleted. Do you understand?" He glanced at Sherlock, who nodded slowly. "Now get out of the car. I'll see you when you're clean." 

Sherlock walked slowly into the building. Mycroft was right. Of course, he was right.

When John finished medical school and had started working he was drafted, leaving everything behind again to go off to war. It was the most terrible thing he'd ever done. He was a doctor, supposed to be working in medical tents, but they needed help and John was given a gun and thrown out to the front lines. Months and months passed -- gunfire, explosions, death -- and there didn't seem to be an end in sight. Until he was shot. A bullet tore through his shoulder and he was airlifted out of there. He spent hours in surgery, weeks in the hospital and months in physical therapy. The nightmares made it impossible to sleep, and the trauma had left him with a limp.

Once Sherlock had completed rehab, Mycroft kept his promise and helped him. He put him in touch with Scotland Yard who needed some help on a case and suddenly Sherlock had a job. He met some people at the Yard, but didn't really like any of them. He met some people at the hospital whose lab he used -- he disliked those people a bit less at least. A woman he had helped on a case offered him a flat, but he wasn't quite sure he was ready to live on his own. He knew he wouldn't survive actually living with Mycroft, staying there temporarily was difficult enough. He wasn't sure if he could tolerate living with any of his new associates, but he did know for sure than none could tolerate living with him. He took his stuff to the flat anyway, hoping something would work itself out.

As he unpacked, he found an old watch in the bottom of his bag -- he shook it but it seemed dead. He took it to a shop and had it mended. He wasn't sure where it had come from, but he liked it. It felt like it had meaning -- maybe a symbol of his new grown up life -- so instead of wearing it, he put it in the top drawer of his desk to keep it safe. He looked around the flat -- yes, this would be a good place to live. If he couldn't find a flatmate, he hoped he could make it on his own.


	4. John Returns

Now John was back home, in a small apartment he could barely afford, seeing a therapist as he tried to adjust to being back to normal life. Unable to stand being closed in his flat any longer he went out, taking a cab into the city and then walking. He missed London. He cut through the park and heard someone calling him. For a wild moment he thought it was Sherlock and he turned eagerly. But it was Mike, a fellow student from when he was at Bart's. John didn't feel like talking just then but he felt rude leaving so he got a coffee and sat with Mike.

It was a bit awkward, but Mike asked about the family and where he was staying. John admitted to missing London and Mike suggested he share a flat with someone. When John laughed, Mike said he knew someone that was looking so John agreed to meet them. They slowly made their way to Bart's and he followed Mike up to the lab. When John walked in, his heart stopped beating.

Sherlock. The man who looked up from whatever experiment he was doing was Sherlock.

John opened his mouth to say something, wondering why Sherlock wasn't as surprised or excited to see him, when Sherlock started asking for a phone to use.

John watched him, trying to keep his breathing normal and steady. "You can use mine," he said, holding his phone out. John's fears had been justified that day. Sherlock had forgotten him the way only Sherlock could. Completely, as if John had never even existed.    

Sherlock reached over and took the stranger's phone. "Thank you," he said as he glanced up and then turned to start typing. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John's heart leapt when Sherlock asked. But then he also knew how Sherlock observed. He glanced at Mike who seemed amused. "Sorry?" he asked, just to make sure first.

Molly from the morgue popped in and handed Sherlock some coffee. He turned back to the stranger. "How do you feel about the violin? I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John watched him as the words came out. He was hardly looking over. He didn't remember. "Um . . . no, none of that would bother me," he said. "So Mike told you about me?"

Mike shook his head.

Sherlock said, "I've mentioned to Mike that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. It wasn’t that difficult a leap." He packed up his things and turned towards the door. "I've got to go, but if you're interested, the name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." And then he left. 

John watched him go, looking over at Mike again. "That's what he's always like. I know he's a bit odd but he's a good guy."

John looked towards the door again.

Sherlock had forgotten him. Deleted him.

There was no way John could pass up the flat, even if he dwindled away his savings trying to pay for it. Sherlock had to remember eventually. John debated flat out telling him who he was but if Sherlock really had deleted him it would do no good -- and Sherlock would think he was insane and possibly send him away. Later that afternoon he arrived at the flat, knocking on the handle and looking up and down the street. It was a nice area, busy. 

Sherlock returned from his errands, seeing the man at the flat's door just as his cab pulled up. He got out, paid the driver and walked over. "What's your name then?" he asked.

"John. John Watson," he added, saying his full name. Sherlock always called him by his full name when there was really no reason to. He watched Sherlock's eyes for any kind of recognition. 

Just then Mrs Hudson opened the door. She pulled him into a hug. He stepped back and introduced John saying, "He's thinking of taking the flat with me."

"Come in," she said.

All three of them walked up to the flat. John looked around as Mrs Hudson pointed out all of its advantages. Sherlock shooed her away and then turned to John. "It is a nice flat," he said. "Look, I should probably eat something at some point -- do you want to go get and early dinner and we can find out a little more about each other before you commit?"

John smiled and couldn't help looking Sherlock up and down. He was rather thin -- John had always had to force him to eat. "Yes, I'm starving," he said. He followed Sherlock slowly, gripping at his cane.

They walked to a little cafe. Once they got their drinks, he asked, "Was I right about Afghanistan?"

John nodded. "Of course you were," he said before he could help it. "How did you know?" He asked quickly to cover it up.

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock said. "You'd be surprised how much people reveal about themselves without even knowing it. Of course, most people aren't observant enough to read those clues. But I am."

"Consulting?" John asked, placing his order quickly before looking at Sherlock again. That was a good thing to do with his skills if the job was what John thought it was.

"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me," Sherlock said. He took a sip of his drink. "Your limp? It is psychosomatic, you know. Somehow I think you do."

John shrugged. "My therapist thinks so, but there's nothing I can do. She's tried medicine, hypnosis, and even tricking me into trying to use it," he said.

"You're too smart for tricks," Sherlock said. "You need something that makes you want to be without the cane. You need something that makes you want to be like you were before." He sat back a bit as the server brought the food and set it down in front of them. He smiled and began fiddling with the food on his plate. "But then again, why listen to me? We've only known each other a few hours."

John was ready to ask what he'd been like before, to tease Sherlock and make him say what he had deduced about John already, but the last comment changed his mind. His smile faltered a bit as he mixed his own food around. "Well, I'm sure it'll go away soon," he said.

"Any questions for me?" Sherlock asked. "I'm a relatively solitary person, so you don't have to worry about me being too disruptive of your life. I won't keep you from getting a job, which I'm presume you're thinking of doing soon."

John nodded. "I like to keep busy so I will get something small. You don't think the violin in the middle of the night is disruptive?" He teased.

"I didn't say I play the violin in the middle of the night," Sherlock said, even though he sometimes did. "Besides I only said not to worry about my being too disruptive. That implies there may be a small amount of disruption, but I presume that would be natural given the fact we're sharing the same living space. In what ways do you think you will disrupt my life?"

"I have nightmares, but I doubt that will be disruptive to you," he said. "Sometimes I watch telly late at night to help."

"Nightmares about what?" Sherlock asked and then immediately followed with, "Sorry. You needn't say if you'd rather not."

"The war," John said and he left it at that. "I'm pretty easy to live with," he smiled.

"I'll be honest with you," Sherlock said, "I'm not sure I am. But I'm willing to give it a go. You seem like a nice enough chap, and I'm sure we can work out any trouble. Or you can just leave. How about for the first month we just put my name on the lease and then you have no obligation to me to stay?"

"I will stay," John assured him.

"All right then, Mr Confident," Sherlock said and smiled. He took a few bites of his food. "Um . . . there's nothing in the flat food-wise right now, and I probably am not ideal for being responsible for that. I can guarantee that we'll always have tea but that's about all. We could stop at the shop and just pick up a few essentials on the way back. Do you have a lot of things to move from your current place?"  
  
John shook his head. "I can manage in one trip. And I also don't mind being responsible for the shopping. I had a friend at uni that never ate so I am used to taking care of someone." Again he watched Sherlock for some kind of reaction.

Sherlock fiddled with his food again. "I haven't asked you to take care of me," he said. "I said I wasn't good at shopping." He took a long drink. 

John flushed lightly and nodded. "Sure. I just meant . . . well, it won't be a problem. I won't intrude or anything like that."

Sherlock shifted in his seat, worrying that he was being off putting. He ate another bite of food. "What happened to your friend then?" he asked, trying to move the topic of conversation away from himself. 

John considered how to answer that for a long moment. "We lost touch when I left for the army . . . I suppose we just got too busy," he shrugged. He looked down at his food and mixed it around before eating.

"Well, you know what they say about those kinds of things," Sherlock said, even though he didn't know who 'they' were nor what 'those kinds of things' actually referred to.

"Life has a funny way of giving things like that some time," John said, still not looking up. He didn't want to say anything to give it away. 

Sherlock pushed his plate away from him. "Are we done here?" he asked. "Do you want to move your things in this evening, do you think?"

"Yeah. You can come if you want but it'll only take me a half hour, really." Was that normal to offer that to a stranger? He had to remember it was like the day they first met in school.

"I don't mind helping," Sherlock said as he threw some cash on the table and stood up. As they walked, he asked, "Besides Harry, have you got any other family?"

John looked over at him surprised. "How do you know about Harry?" For a wild moment he thought Sherlock had been faking this whole time to put one over on him.

"Your phone says Harry on back. Unless you nicked it from a stranger, it must have been given to you. Regifted it appears, which seems a strange thing for a friend or lover to do. So Harry must be family," Sherlock answered. "I've got a brother. You might have to meet him. It won't be pleasant." 

John, who had already met Mycroft a few times, merely nodded. "That's incredible," he smiled. "She’s my sister." He hailed a cab and gave the address to his old flat as they climbed in.

"A sister called Harry? I had not thought about that," Sherlock admitted. "So is she helping you settle back then?"

John shook his head. "We don't talk. She gave me the phone on my last leave and I haven't seen her since."

"Got anyone else then? Any other friends besides Mike?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head again. "I've only just come home and in Afghanistan . . . well, it's just Mike," he finished quietly. "Have you met anyone? I mean, do you have a lot of friends?" 

"I suppose I don't really do friends," Sherlock said. "I have associates, but I can't even remember a time when I wanted a 'friend' -- I suppose I just can't see the use." He snuck a glance over at John. "I hope that's not going to be a problem."

John, who had been fighting a small smile because really nothing had changed, sobered as he felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. _Never wanted a friend, can't see the use._ "Of course not. Just flatmates," he added. When the cab pulled up he paid before Sherlock could try, limping with his cane to the door. Once inside he motioned for Sherlock to sit if he wanted while he went to gather his things.

Sherlock sat down and glanced around the room -- there wasn't much to it. He wondered if that meant there wasn't much to John. Sherlock got the sense there was something to John -- he wasn't sure what it was yet, but John seemed quite . . . likeable. 

John tossed what little clothes he had into the bag first before throwing in everything else on top. As he said there wasn't much so a half hour later he was in the sitting room, lifting the bag. "We can go now," he said.

"All right. Need any help carrying stuff?" he asked as they walked out. "I'll get us a taxi." He stepped into the street and raised his hand.

John limped over to it. He put the bag in his lap and sighed softly. He couldn't help glancing at Sherlock every few minutes.

Sherlock glanced over at John and caught him glancing at him. He smiled. John was quite handsome, which Sherlock realised was an odd thing to think about. When they got back to the flat, Sherlock paid the driver, lifted the bag and carried it upstairs. He took it up to the spare room. "I'll let you get sorted then," he said. He moved back to the sitting room and tried to organise some of his own things.

John didn't bother unpacking just then, knowing it would be a proper job with his leg. He sighed and lay back on the bed, starting up at the ceiling. He'd managed to get through to Sherlock once, maybe he could do it again. They could start over. He thought about what they had done on the night of graduation and he bit his lip. Could it get to that again?

After a bit, Sherlock moved to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He opened the fridge to get the milk, but milk was not what was in the fridge. He walked up and tapped on John's door. "I need tea but we've no milk. I'm going to go get some," he said.

"Okay," John said, hoisting himself up. "Want me to come along?"

"Well, John, I believe flatmates should be honest with each other so I'll say this. No, I don't want you to come along. I want you to offer to go get it instead," he said, smiling.

John grinned. "No thanks," he said back.

"Fine," Sherlock said, "I really hadn't expected you to be so selfish so soon." He went and grabbed his coat, calling, "Do you need anything else?"

John frowned and hobbled out of bed, going to the landing on the stairs. "I'll go next time," he called down. "I don't need anything else." 

"Fine," Sherlock said again and headed out. He wasn't sure if John believed him about having no food so he decided on the way home, he'd pick up some Chinese for later. He wanted to convince John, or maybe himself, that he could be independent.

Moments after Sherlock left, there was a knock on the flat's door.

John wondered if Sherlock had forgotten something or changed his mind. He slowly made his way down the steps and pulled open the door. "Mycroft?" he gasped lightly.

"John Watson," Mycroft said, pushing past him into the flat and shutting the door. "I need to speak to you but I'm afraid this visit shall have to be brief. Please tell me that Sherlock does not remember who you are."

"No, he doesn't," John said, following him as well as he could. "We met accidentally and he's . . . he's deleted me."

"Yes, well, it sounds a bit harsh when you say it like that, but I'm afraid it had to be done. Has he mentioned anything about what happened after you left?" Mycroft asked.

John shook his head. "No. He's had no reason to -- he thinks we're strangers. What happened?"

"It was rather unpleasant, I'm afraid. I'm not sure quite how aware you were of his dependence on you -- once you were gone, he created even less healthy dependencies," Mycroft said as he inspected the flat. "However, we mustn't dwell on the past. I take it your purpose here will be contributing to the rent? I mean, that's why you 'met' -- as potential flatmates? I won't forbid it -- I'd rather he not spend all his time alone -- however, I must ask that you keep your previous friendship a secret. And John -- do not encourage him to become dependent on you." He walked towards the door but turned and casually added, "I see there are two bedrooms . . . no need for 'sleepovers’ I'd imagine."

John watched him for a moment, then looked around the flat before looking at him again. "There's no need for sleepovers," he said simply, not knowing how he was going to control Sherlock's dependencies. But it made him sad because unhealthy dependencies -- well, he knew what that meant.  

"Good, I'm glad we're both on the same page," Mycroft said, opening the door. "I don't think he needs to know about this little visit. If you and I meet again, it will be as strangers." He stepped out and then turned to add, "Oh and uh . . . welcome home, Captain Watson" and then he was gone.

John watched him leave and then slowly made his way up before Sherlock got home. How was he supposed to stop getting closer to him when he'd missed him so much? When he was so lucky to be seeing him after all of this time? After thinking he never would again?


	5. The New Flatmates

When Sherlock returned, John wasn't in the sitting room. Sherlock wondered what he was doing but didn't know if he should bother him. He set the food on the table and turned the kettle back on. He went up and tapped on John's door. "I got Chinese for dinner if you fancy it," he said and then returned to the sitting room.

John's stomach growled and he sat up, slowly making his way down the stairs. "I love Chinese," he smiled. He passed Sherlock and went into the kitchen, making himself a plate. "Did you get the milk, then? Should I start the kettle?"

"It's just boiled," Sherlock said, "and obviously I got the milk, that's why I went out." He stood up and walked towards John, handing him his phone. "Look, add your number in here -- I was going to text to see what food you wanted but realised I didn't have your number." He dumped some fried rice onto a plate for himself.

John started to add his number but the contact came up already. It was saved with the name of their university. He glanced at Sherlock and changed the name to his before saving it. "Here you go," he said, sliding it back. 

"Thanks. I just told the guy to give me whatever meal an ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp might like. Did he choose well?" Sherlock said, sitting down at the table.

John looked up at him again, unsure if he was kidding. "It's good. I'm not too picky about food," he said. 

"What are you picky about?" Sherlock asked, "I mean, so it might be good to know to avoid problems in the future."

John shrugged. "So far everything is fine. I mean, I will let you know when something bothers me," he said. 

"Don't you think it'd be wiser to let me know in advance of something bothering you? Then I can avoid doing that thing or if I've already done it, I can avoid you," Sherlock said. "I'm trying to be a prepared flatmate, John." He fiddled with his rice. "Are you picky about brands of tea or types of wine or beer?" he asked. 

"No," John shook his head. "I like eating and I don't take sugar in my tea. And I would prefer it if you didn't play the violin at three in the morning. That's probably all you need to know," he smiled. 

"What about smoking? I occasionally smoke. I have a feeling you hate smoking. Does this mean that if I'm standing in front of you, you'd prefer I not light up and exhale my smoke into your face?" Sherlock asked.

"I would prefer if you smoked outside," John agreed. "Or quit, actually, but there's not much I can do about that."

"I have quit," Sherlock said, "but occasionally I unquit." He looked up at John. "Are you always so judgmental? It's not a very attractive feature, you know."

John rolled his eyes and smiled. "I am not judging. I am merely stating a fact, as a doctor and a friend-I mean, flatmate. Mostly as a doctor," he added quickly. 

"Are you planning on pulling the doctor card all the time?" Sherlock asked. "Because that seems like it would get annoying very quickly."

"No," John shook his head. "I think I am going to head back up. I haven't unpacked yet," he said, washing up his plate quickly. He grabbed his cane and headed for the sitting room. "Thanks for dinner. I'll get food tomorrow and cook something up for us, if you want." 

Sherlock stood up as well. "Are you cross with me, John? Have I done something wrong? I was just trying . . . to find out more about you so we could get on. I'm sorry," he said. He heard the words coming out of his mouth, but they surprised him -- why did this relative stranger's feelings seem to matter? Was it just because of the living situation? Or was it something else?

John paused and closed his eyes for a moment before turning to look at him. "I'm sorry," he shook his head. "I'm not cross with you and I would really like it if we could be friends." He felt his eyes burn and he took a deep breath to calm himself down. "I don't . . .I just don't know what to say. I guess I don't know what to do." It was so difficult pretending he didn't know Sherlock -- pretending he didn't love him, didn't miss him, pretending not to care about him not remembering. 

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, sitting back down and staring at the table. "I've never lived with anyone before and . . . I've never been great interacting with people, so maybe I'm just getting things wrong." He stood up again and put his plate in the sink and then turned to look up at John. "It's okay. It's just new for both of us, I guess. Let's not make it awkward. I think I'll go sort my room and then have an early night. Okay -- we’re okay?"

John watched his back as he went to the sink. _Never lived with anyone. Dependent. Unhealthy habits._ Everything John had been afraid of when he left seemed to have come true. Well, he never expected drugs. What if Sherlock had written back? What if he had Skyped or answered calls? Would that have happened to him anyways? John couldn't help feeling responsible as he slowly made his way into the sitting room with him. "We're okay," he nodded. "There might be a lot of moving around, I'll try to be quick," he smiled. 

"Not a problem," Sherlock said, smiling a little. "If I don't see you again tonight, I'll see you in the morning." He went into his room and sat down on the bed. He looked around and then stood up again and began unpacking his clothes. It was strange with someone else here. All of a sudden Sherlock lived with a complete stranger -- how'd that happen?

Once his clothes were done, he decided to get ready for bed. He changed into his pajamas and then nipped to the bathroom. He returned to his room and got into bed. He reached over to the bedside table and turned the radio on low. He picked up his phone and scanned through his contacts for John's name. 

_Good night, John Watson. SH_

John moved from the bed to the closet what seemed like a hundred times, taking one garment at a time. He never paid too much attention to how little he had but for the first time he was grateful. When he was finished he was too sore to go down to the bathroom and brush his teeth so he just stripped to his boxers and got into bed. When his phone buzzed he stretched for it, smiling at the message. His full name.  

_Good night, Science Boy._

He stared at it for a moment, daring himself to press send. Mycroft's warning hovered over him. And Sherlock would only think he was a weirdo. He deleted the last two words with a small sigh. 

_Good night, Sherlock. -JW_

Sherlock looked at the text and smiled. He hoped this would work because, even though he didn't really know John, for some reason, Sherlock seemed to really like him. He turned over in the bed and tried to go to sleep.

John fell asleep shortly after that, tossing around a bit before finally waking up with a loud gasp. He rubbed his eyes and yawned before getting out of bed. He found pajamas and made his way downstairs quietly. It was dark -- the sun only just breaking past the horizon. He started the kettle while he used the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He sat quietly at the table and sipped at his tea, trying to push the images of his nightmare away. 

Sherlock heard a noise and sat up with a start. It took a second to remember John's presence in the flat and even though he knew that he'd have to get used to it, he decided to get up. Just in case. Just in case what? Just in case it wasn't John but actually a murderer? Just in case he was about to catch John searching through his things? Maybe John had had a nightmare. Maybe John needed something. Maybe John needed something Sherlock could offer.

"John? Everything all right?" he said softly, stepping out into the kitchen.

"Just being disruptive," he joked, pointing to the kettle. "The water is still hot if you want some tea." 

Sherlock poured a mug for himself and sat down at the table. "It's weird, sleeping in a new place, isn't it?" 

John nodded. "The first couple nights are odd," he agreed. "Are you . . . were you staying here long before I moved in?"

"Not really," Sherlock said. The truth is he had grown so used to not being alone at rehab and then at Mycroft's that the first night he was here, he had to go downstairs and slept on the floor outside Mrs Hudson's door. And when she found him there the next morning, she insisted he sleep the next night on her sofa. That was when he spoke to Mike and that was when John came along. "I suppose tonight's my first proper night here."

"And now I've ruined it," John said, smiling to show he was teasing. Sort of. "My friend from school used to sleep over all of the time and when I went to the army, there were always people around. It just takes a bit of time to get used to sleeping alone, I guess."

"It's just the silence for me," Sherlock said. "Before . . . I was mainly at my brother's. I had my own room obviously, but I got used to his sounds, knowing what they meant. It's hard when it's so silent and then when I heard you, I didn't recognise the noise." He took a sip of tea. "Just odd, but I'm sure we'll get used to it." He glanced into the sitting room. "Want to put the telly on? You could lie on the sofa -- I wouldn't mind if you fell asleep there. It's too early for us to properly start the day."

John rubbed his eyes and nodded. He finished his tea and stood up, taking the mug to the sink. "Yeah, I think that would be a good distraction. I can keep it low -- unless you want to stay and watch with me," he shrugged. He smiled and led the way, forgetting for a moment how slowly he moved. He sank down on the sofa and turned the telly on, flipping through slowly. 

Sherlock followed John onto the sofa, squeezing into the corner so John could have as much space as he needed. "Choose whatever you want, I'm not bothered," he said.

John searched the channels for a while and then settled on the news. It was too early for much else to be on. He slouched down a bit and tried to get more comfortable.  

Sherlock looked over at John. "Okay?" he asked.

John looked over and nodded. "Just trying to get comfortable. It's hard with my leg being so stiff," he said, patting his thigh. 

"You can put it up, I don't care," Sherlock said. "You live here -- make yourself comfortable."

"I usually like it bent under me -- curled up, you know? It's okay like this," he smiled.

Sherlock said, getting up, "Let me move to the chair. Take the sofa."

"Oh, no," John said, sitting up and almost grabbing his arm. He just barely stopped himself. "You won't be able to see well from there. You can stay," he said. 

Sherlock sat back down. "Just . . . I want you to feel comfortable," he said, "let me help." He leaned over and kind of pushed John to the side and lifted his legs. "I don't want to hurt you . . . is this better with them up on the sofa?"

John nodded, his feet touching Sherlock's leg. "Yes," he admitted. "Maybe . . . should I turn the other way so you're not next to my feet?" 

"Sure, that's fine, do you need my help?" Sherlock said. He looked over at John. Why was Sherlock feeling so concerned?

John moved his legs down and shifted closer to Sherlock. This was a bad idea -- he could almost see Mycroft in the room, glaring from the corner. He hoisted his legs up again and, with just a bit of hesitance, leaned back against Sherlock. A thousand memories flooded into his head -- watching movies, cuddling, sleeping, kissing, graduation night -- and he closed his eyes as he lay there. "Okay?" he asked quietly. 

"Sure," Sherlock said. He wasn't quite sure what to do with his hands so he picked up the remote and fiddled with it. Softly he said, "Did you have a nightmare earlier, John?"

John nodded against his arm. "Yeah, I did," he said quietly.

"If your friend were here, what would he do to make you feel better?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John thought about that. He'd never had nightmares so distressing before, but he'd spent enough time with Sherlock to guess. "We . . . well, we were a bit more than friends, I think, so it wouldn't be anything we could do now," he said quietly.

"Well, look, should I rest my hand here?" he asked, dropping it to John's arm. "I don't know what else to do with it, and maybe it'll give you some comfort or something?"

"That's fine," he murmured. If Sherlock had remembered him and they weren't strangers, he would curl up against Sherlock in bed, pull the covers comfortably around them and sleep in his arms. This was close -- closer than he could have hoped.

Sherlock let his fingers stroke John's arm just a bit. "All right, shut up now," he whispered, "and go to sleep before you begin to annoy me." He smiled down at him and then dropped his own head a little onto the back of the sofa. 

For a moment John reveled in how comfortable Sherlock was holding him, attempting to sleep with him, and even offering comfort. He couldn't have deleted John completely. He must be somewhere in there, even if it was very far in the back. Sherlock never liked anyone and now he was taking to John all over again. 

He wondered as he closed his eyes how Sherlock would feel if he were to suddenly remember. Would he be angry? Relieved? Indifferent? John fell asleep thinking about that, dreaming instead of trying to trick Sherlock into remembering him.

Sherlock eventually closed his eyes and drifted to sleep as well. He dreamt he was in an alley, it was dark, and he was stumbling. He looked down at a pipe in his hand. A man stepped out from a doorway. "Let me take care of you," he said. Sherlock lifted the pipe to his mouth and flicked his lighter. As Sherlock inhaled he looked up at the man's flame-lit face. It was John. Sherlock took a step back. "You know where to find me," John said as he disappeared into the doorway again.

Sherlock opened his eyes. The sun was now streaming into the flat. John was curled on the sofa, still asleep. Sherlock slipped off the sofa and went to the bathroom to splash his face. He looked into the mirror. What did that dream mean? Was living with John going to put him at some kind of risk?

John shifted on the sofa and he slipped down the back a bit. He opened his eyes and sat up, yawning and stretching with a satisfied groan. He looked around and wondered where Sherlock had got to, reaching for his cane to get to the bathroom.

Sherlock came out of the bathroom, almost bumping into John. "Morning," he mumbled. "I'll make tea." He moved to the kettle and rinsed the two mugs from last night. He stared at them while he waited. 

John washed up and came out a few minutes later, joining him in the kitchen. "Everything all right?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said. "Everything's fine." He poured the tea. "Did you sleep all right?"

"Yes, thanks to you," John said, trying to read his body language. He seemed upset or on edge. "I . . .I know that was a bit different -- we've just met -- but I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable."

"John, I'm fine," Sherlock said, "I'm not uptight about things like that." He handed John a mug. "I'm glad I could help."

 _Don't you remember what we've done?_ John wanted to ask, but he didn't. He took the mug and merely thanked him instead, sitting down at the table. "I'll probably head out for some groceries," he said after a bit. "Would you like to come with me?"

"No," Sherlock said. "Can't you just get enough for both of us? I'll pay. That's fair isn't it -- I pay, you shop? That's balanced, right?"

"You don't have to pay," he said. "You'll hardly eat it anyways, right?" He stood and put his mug into the sink. "I'll take a cab, I won't be long." He headed for the stairs so he could put some actual clothes on. 

Sherlock went into his room and got dressed and then sat down at his desk. When John returned he said, "Should I come with you then?" 

John shook his head. "It's all right. I won't be long. Text me if you think of anything you need." He waved before leaving, skipping the cab on the way there. His pension wasn't much and he needed to see where this new rent was going to leave him. He needed to be careful.

Sherlock watched John out the window. He stood up and looked around the flat. He walked up to John's room, but didn't cross the threshold. He just peered into the room, looking around. It crossed his mind to go in and search all the drawers, trying to find out who John really was and why he was affecting Sherlock in such unusual ways.

But that would be wrong. So he moved back to his desk and just tried to be normal.

At the shop John hung a basket from his elbow and started with essentials -- mostly food for breakfast and dinner. He was sure he didn't need anything else but he could always come out again later. He paid and started to walk home again, deciding after five minutes that he really did need a cab. At the flat his pride refused to call for help so he hobbled up slowly with bags and cane.

Sherlock opened the door for John. "Let me take something," he said, grabbing some bags from John's arm. He went to the kitchen and started putting things away. "I'm not quite sure what half of this is," he said. "Are you sure I can trust you with food?"

"Yes," John said, bringing the last bag into the kitchen. "It's all edible, just let me worry about that."

"Fine. I presume you didn't bring the post up," Sherlock said. He made an exaggerated groan. "I'll go get it since I have to do everything around here." He headed towards the door, grabbing a small box of books once he was out of John's eyeline. He opened the door, walked halfway down, stopped and sent the box crashing the rest of the way. "John!" he yelled and turned around to wait.

John was moving before the shout -- as soon as the crashing registered. He came out onto the landing so quickly be almost tumbled down himself. "Sherlock?"

Mrs Hudson's door opened. "What's happened?" Mrs Hudson asked, coming out quickly. "Sherlock!" 

"What happened? Are you okay?" John panted.

Sherlock turned to look at Mrs Hudson. "Go back inside -- I'm sorry to disturb you, but I was just proving a point." He turned and looked up at John. "That was fast for a man who needs a cane," he said as he climbed the stairs back to the flat. "Sit down for a second, John, I think we need to have a little talk."

John looked down and noticed he didn't have his cane. He hadn't even thought about it and now as he followed Sherlock, he realised he didn’t need it at all.

John followed Sherlock, marveling at his leg. "I wasn't faking," he said wildly as if he was being accused.

"Psychosomatic doesn't mean faking -- you're a doctor, you know that," Sherlock said, as he sat down next to John on the sofa. He took a deep breath and then cleared his throat a little. "John, we've not been acquainted long enough for you to know this about me, but I am almost always correct in my deductions. Yesterday, I said your limp was psychosomatic and you'd no longer need your cane when you had something that made you want to be like you were before the war. Clearly, I was right. That said, you did prove me wrong on one point -- I said you were too smart to fall for tricks, and apparently you are not," he said, smiling a little. 

"However," Sherlock continued. "I am a little concerned about why I make you feel this way. I don't want this to sound harsh," he glanced up quickly before looking down again, "but I think you might be confusing me with your . . . friend and that might be why I remind you of how you used to be . . . because I remind you of him." He forced himself to look at John again. "I'm glad I make you feel comfortable, I am -- I am surprisingly comfortable with you actually so that's all good. I don't mind what happened last night. But John, I'm not him. I'm Sherlock Holmes, your new flatmate. Maybe we'll be friends, but . . . I'm not him."

John looked down at his hands, picking at a spot on his hands. He felt like screaming that he was that friend. Screaming about how he promised to write and never did. Screaming that he promised he wouldn't forget. "I'm sorry you feel I've crossed some sort of line. I will be more cautious about my behaviour," he said finally.

"It's not . . . it's not your behaviour -- it's more your . . . I just don't want you to feel let down again. I don't know what this friend did or didn't do and why you're no longer a part of each other's lives, but . . . I feel I'm already working at a disadvantage because any kind of friendship is so new to me . . . I don't want his mistakes working against me and hurting you all over again," Sherlock said. They sat in silence for a moment and then he turned on the sofa to face John. "Look, maybe I'm the one who's crossed a line. I'm sorry for tricking you. I just want . . . you to be comfortable here. With me. I just want this to work out."

"I am comfortable," John said. "I would prefer if we were friends as well but...I mean, there're no rules. People just . . . become friends, you know? Whatever makes us comfortable. I'm sorry I've done things to make you uncomfortable. I'll try and pull back a bit."

Sherlock thought for a moment. He realised that's not what he wanted, he didn't want John to pull back. But he wasn't sure if he should say that -- he didn't want to cloud the real issue, which was John's old friend. He also thought saying that might make John confused about what was going on, and Sherlock already felt confused enough for the both of them.

John glanced over at him when he didn't say anything else. It was awful, feeling this way. He was so close and yet it wasn't enough. A small voice in his head wondered if it would be easier if they never met, but he shut it up quickly because anything was better than nothing. He stood up and grabbed his cane from the kitchen, coming back into the sitting room and looking over at him. "I'm going to take this up to my room -- then I'll start making something for dinner." Normal conversation. Sitting in the silence like this wasn't going to help either of them. "Do you want me to help you clean up the books?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I want you to clean them up on your own." He smiled and stood up. "But that's rather selfish, so I'll go get them. It was my trick, I should clean up after it." He went downstairs, picked up the box and started putting the books in. Mrs Hudson opened her door.

"Are you already fighting with your new friend, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Flatmate," he said and then felt bad that he had. "We're not fighting. I was just conducting an experiment to prove myself right."  
  
"Were you also trying to prove him wrong?" she asked softly. "People don't always appreciate being proved wrong. I don't think you'd like that, now would you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't know, Mrs Hudson, as I am so very infrequently wrong."

"Sherlock Holmes, don't be boastful -- it's unattractive," she scolded. "And besides, you're wrong about him." She motioned up the stairs.

"What do you mean? Do you think it was a mistake to let him move in?" In a weird way, Mrs Hudson's opinion did kind of matter to Sherlock.

"No, I mean you're wrong that you're just his flatmate," she said, "you're his friend, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't say anything but finished picking up the books and returned to the flat.

John put the cane in the back of his closet, marveling again at the fact that he didn't need it. He went back down to the kitchen and started cleaning potatoes for dinner. "All done?" he asked when he saw Sherlock come back. 

"Yes," Sherlock said. "But you should probably know I don't clean up quite so quickly after all of my experiments." He sat down at the table. "I feel like I should ask if you need help but I might not because I'm likely very hopeless at this sort of business."

John laughed and shook his head. "All I have to do is put everything in the oven. It'll be done in about an hour. Do you want to watch a film? I could bring my computer down."  

"My laptop hooks up to the telly," Sherlock said, standing and moving over to get it sorted.

John closed the little foil pockets of food and put them into the oven, setting the timer just in case he forgot. He made his way into the sitting room, watching Sherlock. 

Even though Sherlock knew the hookup would work, he hadn't actually done it before but eventually he got it sorted. "There's a remote even, I think," he said, as he sat back rather pleased with himself. "It's over on the desk or it might be in the top desk drawer -- can you grab it? What are we watching anyway?"

"I was thinking maybe . . . the Hobbit sequel?" He knew he was probing and he didn't know if that was a good idea but he couldn't help his curiosity. What would it take to make him remember? John opened the drawer to get the remote and froze. His father's old watch was lying beside it. He had worn it until it stopped working and then his mum and Harry had pitched in to get him a new one. Why was it here? "Sherlock, where did you get this?" he asked, lifting the watch.  

"Hey, don't touch that," Sherlock called, a little panicked for some reason. "It's . . . valuable. That's -- that's why I don't wear it and just have it there. . . for safekeeping." He regulated his breathe as soon as John put the watch down, and then he turned his attention back to the television. "Whatever movie you want is fine," he said.

John felt a nice warmth as Sherlock got so defensive over the watch. He's been right about not being deleted. Sherlock must have just . . . put John away somewhere, like the watch -- for safekeeping. He put it back into the drawer and moved to the sofa with Sherlock. 

Sherlock let John sort the film and then settled in on the sofa. "If you want to lie down a bit, just do -- don't make a fuss about it, I'm fine if we're touching," he said. He just wanted things to be normal. Then he stood up. "Actually I want to make some tea -- if there's previews, let them run; if not, I'll be right back. Get yourself sorted while I'm gone." He stood up and moved to the kitchen, boiling a full pot and bringing it, with two mugs and milk, back to the room. He put it on the table. "Now we won't have to stop if we need a top up," he said, settling back in on the sofa.

"Good idea," John smiled, curling his legs underneath him and getting comfortable. "I hope you don't mind it's the sequel. Have you seen the first one?"

Sherlock looked at the television and thought. He couldn't really remember having seen it but he found himself saying, "I don't know" instead of no. "I read the books when I was younger so I'm sure I'll be able to follow along." He let his hand rest on the sofa -- not on John but close to him, as if to say he'd be all right if they were to touch for any reason.

John glanced at his hand and almost reached over to take it. But then he remembered Sherlock's speech about not blurring the lines so he kept his hands to himself. It was odd -- John couldn't remember what was appropriate with a stranger and what wasn't. He was comfortable with Sherlock, always more than others, and he hadn't forgotten that.  

Sherlock tried to stay focused on the film -- movies had always been hard for him because it was hard for him to just stay still. But John didn't know this about him, and he was afraid he'd appear rude if he didn't at least try to really watch the film. A few times he looked around the room or up at John quickly before looking back. John was quite handsome; surely others could see that, which made Sherlock wonder about his love life a little. Why did John seem alone when he was so handsome he must easily attract people?

John could feel Sherlock looking over at him, just barely fighting back his fidgeting. John smiled over at him. "It's okay if you're bored," he said. _I got you to watch the last one because you were half asleep._

"I'm not bored," Sherlock said. "Believe me, when I am bored, I will let you know. It's just . . . the film's quite long, isn't it? And this sofa is . . ." he shifted a bit, lifting his legs up onto the table. "I'm fine. Are you comfortable?"

John nodded. "There's a lot of room if you want to get more comfortable. I-I won't cross the line again if you lie down," he added. 

"John, stop saying you crossed a line, you didn't," Sherlock said. "That whole conversation -- it wasn't really about my feeling at all. I won't lie, I'm not always good at recognising feelings, but I am good at being annoyed, which I will be if you keep going on about it. Here," Sherlock turned sharply on the sofa and plopped his legs into John's lap. "Now I've crossed a line -- happy?" He wiggled his toes a little and let out a satisfied sigh. "I hope my feet stink and all," he said under his breath as he smiled. 

John shoved his legs and laughed softly. "You said I was blurring the lines, Sherlock, not me. I just didn't want to make you uncomfortable." He shifted on the sofa and lay on Sherlock again before he could say anything. "There. Just like before. Now quiet -- I'm missing the movie," he added.  

Sherlock looked at the film. "Blurring the lines between me and him," he said under his breath, without turning his head. "I didn't say I had an issue with blurring the lines between me and you." He let his hand softly rest on John. 

John licked his lips and brought his hand up to hold Sherlock's. If only Sherlock knew -- if he could only tell Sherlock the truth about his friend. 

Sherlock enjoyed the feeling of John's hand on his. It was comfortable so he decided not to wonder too much about why such an unusual thing was occurring. Once again, he tried to focus on the film. "Just out of curiosity, John," he finally said, "does this film indeed have an ending or is it one of those that just goes on for an eternity or until the entire audience drops dead?"

John grinned. "We didn't finish the first one either." Oops. "I saw it with friends and half of us fell asleep. They are a bit long."

"Well, I didn't even think I was tired when I sat down here, but I do feel like I could fall asleep rather easily," Sherlock admitted.

Just then the timer rang for dinner. "Maybe some dinner will wake you up a bit," he said. He reluctantly pulled away and stood to get their plates ready.

"Jesus, dinner? It feels like it's past midnight," Sherlock said, standing and stretching a little. As he walked into the kitchen, he said, "John, I'm sorry -- I'm not much of a movie person. I hope you're not disappointed." He sat down at the table. "Oh yeah," he said, standing up again. "Am I supposed to help or something?"

"No, no. It's all done." He put Sherlock's plate in front of him and then went for his own. When he sat down again he said, "I'm not disappointed, Sherlock. It's just a movie."

"John . . . this is a lot of food," Sherlock said.

"Just have however much you want," John smiled.

"Only if it won't hurt your feelings," Sherlock said. "If you'll be hurt, I'll clean my plate and then have a horrible stomachache and have to stay in bed for days. If that's what you want, I'm prepared to do it just to prove I am a charming flatmate."

"That fact that you're eating it is enough," John assured him. He smiled and started on his own meal. The movie played in the background.

Sherlock took a few bites. "It tastes nice, actually," he said. "So what else do you like to do with your time -- besides films? If I were gone all day on a case, when I came home, what would I be likely to find you doing?"

"Reading. Or maybe blogging. My therapist thinks blogging will help me assimilate to normal life," he said.

"Hmm . . . if normal life is your goal, are you really sure living here is a good idea?" Sherlock said. But then he thought about more about it. "Seriously, John, my life is decidedly not normal. Are you sure you wouldn't do better with a more . . . well, a less . . . just a normal home?"

"I'm not looking for normal, Sherlock. I'm just looking for happy."

"Happy? Happy's even less likely, John Watson!" Sherlock said. He ate a few more bites. "Alive -- alive is what we aim for at 221B Baker Street."

"Well, alive is good too," John smiled. "I'm not worried about it."

Sherlock pushed his plate away from him. "I suppose I should offer to do the washing up, yes?" he asked.

"Well, it's only fair really," he smiled. "I would like to finish my movie and you don't seem to be too fussed about missing it." 

"Fine, fine, fine," Sherlock said getting up and getting to work. He put the kettle on as he tidied and poured a cup of tea for each of them. He took John's in and handed it to him and then went back to the kitchen to finish up. Once he had, he carried his tea into the sitting room, sat down on the sofa, and looked at the television.

"Just about five minutes left," John assured him, sipping at his tea with a content sigh. He'd been listening to Sherlock bustle around the kitchen and he liked it -- it was certainly something he could get used to. Not just Sherlock doing chores, but the fact that it was such a domestic thing to do. 

"It's been an all right first day, don't you think?" Sherlock asked quietly without turning to look at John.

"An excellent day," John smiled. "I'm thankful to Mike. I'm very glad that I met you."

"It seems like we've known each other longer than twenty-four hours," Sherlock said. "Odd, really."

John bit his lip and glanced over at him, only for a second. "Yes, it does. Sometimes that happens with people," he said. The movie ended and the credits started to roll up on the screen. 

"It's never happened to me, John," Sherlock said. "Are you suggesting we knew each other in a past life? Are you also into astrology? Oh my god, you really should have mentioned these things before." He looked over and gave John a little smile. 

"I suppose you could call it a past life," John smiled back. He stood and shut the computer off, and then the telly after. "I am off to bed, I assume you didn't want any of that on?"

"No thank you," Sherlock said, also standing. "I guess I'll turn in as well."

John looked around to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, running his hand through his hair and ruffling it a bit. As soon as he stopped he flattened it again, a habit he'd had since Sherlock told him he didn't like it. "Good night, then." He smiled and headed up stairs to his room.

Sherlock watched John and there was something about the way he ruffled his hair, there was something . . . something so familiar, so . . . and suddenly, the memories he'd locked away in the "no longer useful" portion of his brain were released. Everything.

John. The word echoed in his head -- like all the times he had ever said it, all those years ago, were now bouncing around in his brain. Time stopped for just a second and then Sherlock was back in the flat, standing in front of John. He realised he'd said the name aloud, but now he said nothing. He couldn't think of any other words.

John had been at the top, just on the landing when he heard Sherlock say his name. He came back down a couple steps to see him. "Yeah?"

Sherlock looked at John. No, he wasn't looking at -- he was seeing John. John Watson. His best friend. He stood for a few minutes, just seeing -- and remembering.

"Um . . . nothing . . . good night," Sherlock said, turning quickly and escaping to his room. He shut the door and lay down on his bed in the dark. There was now too much in his head, and he took deep breaths trying to make it all make sense.

John, who'd been looking at Sherlock as he waited for a reply, had seen something change in him. His eyes -- it seemed he'd seen John properly. Was he angry? Upset? Trying to forget again? He took one step down but stopped himself taking more. If he really had remembered he'd have a lot to sort out. He went up to his room and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to listen as if he could hear Sherlock thinking.


	6. Remembering

Sherlock lay on the bed for a while, just remembering. Everything. Secondary school. Adventures. Uni. Classes. Sleepovers. Graduation. Saying goodbye.

Eventually he stood up and went into the bathroom. He splashed his face with water and brushed his teeth. He went back into his room and changed into his pajamas. Then he walked up to John's bedroom door. There was no light coming from underneath. He knocked on it lightly.

John looked up at the door and for a wild second thought he wasn't ready. He couldn't do this -- they couldn't talk about this. Mycroft was going to kill him. He got up and held the handle for a moment. There was still the chance that Sherlock hadn't remembered -- that John had imagined it and Sherlock was here to tell him something mundane. He pulled the door open and looked up at him. He couldn't make his mouth work so he merely stared.

"Sleepover?" Sherlock whispered, stepping into the room and standing by John's bed.

John shut the door and nodded, fighting the burning in his eyes. "I'd like that," John breathed. He came over to the bed as well, climbing up and scooting over for Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled John down on the bed and curled himself around him. He pressed his face into John's chest. "I remember," he said softly. He felt tears but he didn't care.

John held him so tightly he worried he might hurt him. His own tears spilled out as he kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "I missed you so much. I thought . . . I thought I'd never see you again," he murmured.

"I'm so sorry, John," Sherlock said. He held John and the feeling was so good. It was the very definition of comfort.

"I'm sorry too," John murmured, petting his hair.

"Don't leave again," Sherlock said, his words barely audible.

"I won't," John said quietly, holding him tighter. "I won't, but you can't forget me either, yeah?"

"I didn't really, I guess, you were still in there . . . " Sherlock said. "It was just . . . I was having a hard time and it seemed easier to put it all away. I'm sorry . . ." He pressed his face against John's t-shirt as the gripped John's shoulders with his hands.

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's okay because I found you again and you remember and it's going to be okay now." John kissed his head again, holding him tightly and rubbing his back.

"Will you still live here? Can you forgive me?"

"Of course," John said. "I told you I would stay. I was willing to start all over if we had to. I . . . I still love you," he said quietly.

"Don't say it," Sherlock said, "don't say it unless you're sure and you can't be sure yet -- I'm not the same person I was."

"I am sure. I am. I love you so much and I did back then and I do now. Always. No matter what's happened."

"But John . . . I've not been a good person while you've been gone . . . I've made bad choices and it's only now that I'm even starting to be like I was -- and even then, I wasn't as good as you," Sherlock said, "I don't want to drag you down as you start to build your life again."

"Sherlock, anything I would have done before would have been a half life without you," John said quietly. "I missed you so much . . . don't push me away now that I've found you again."

"John, I'm not pushing you away -- in truth, now that I remember, I don't ever want to not be touching you," Sherlock admitted. "It's just . . . I'm afraid of letting you down and losing you again."

"I promise you won't, Sherlock. I know things were bad but you're better now. I'm so proud of you."

Sherlock squeezed John again and lifted his hand to the back of John's hair. He lifted his mouth to John's neck and pressed a small kiss against it. Then he lifted his head and looked at John. "What you do you mean, you know things were bad? What do you know?"

"I-I-Mycroft came by and told me not to help you remember," John said quietly. "He said that you had found other dependencies . . ."

"When? When did this happen? Before Mike brought you to the lab?"

John bit his lip. "When you went for the milk," he murmured.

"That seals it -- I'm never going for milk again," Sherlock said, trying to smile a little. "I thought you meant . . . you knew before . . . all along . . ."

John sighed with relief and smiled softly. "No. I didn't know anything after our last message. When I saw you in the lab it was like seeing a ghost. I never thought -- I tried, Sherlock. I tried everything. Letters, phone calls, Skype -- I even tried Googling science boy," he said. "I looked in directories for schools and the phone book and I didn't know what else to do." 

"I'm sorry I never did the Skype thing, John -- it was too hard . . . I read everything you wrote . . . I wrote many letters I never sent . . . it was just too hard. I'm not good with changes and . . . feelings. My heart -- was broken," Sherlock said. He was stroking John's hair. He looked over. "I was right about the grey." He smiled. 

Tears spilled out as John laughed, leaning into his hand. Somehow he felt a little better that Sherlock had at least read all his letters. "I'm sorry I gave up," he said quietly. 

"Shhh," Sherlock said. He turned and looked at John, leaning in and pressing a small kiss on John's lips. "We're together now. It's like it should be again." He slid his arms around John and pulled him close again.

John curled close and held him tightly. "Are you mad that I didn't try and make you remember when I first saw you? That I was going to let this go on?"

"I'm not angry, though I'm not entirely convinced you'd have pretended forever," Sherlock said. He stroked to John's face. "I can't believe you're home."

John nodded. "It was hard. I was tempted to slip up. And even after Mycroft warned me I was brazenly throwing things at you," he said. 

Sherlock smiled. "I wonder what other things I might remember."

"Do you think you filed away a lot of other things?"

"Just you . . . but you were a part of so many things in my life for so long," he said softly.

"I'm so glad you didn't delete me completely," he murmured. "I'm so glad for Mike bringing me to the lab."

"Let's go to sleep, John, let's get in bed properly and go to sleep . . . like we used to," Sherlock said.

John nodded. "I would really like that," he said, moving to settle properly as he pulled the covers. 

Sherlock slid underneath and curled around John again. "I missed you so much," he mumbled. He let his hands move softly up and down John's back as if his fingertips were remembering touching John as they before, when they were younger. 

"I missed you, too. I missed this," he murmured.

"Can we . . . kiss?" Sherlock said softly.

John grinned. "God yes," he nodded, moving to meet Sherlock's mouth. 

Sherlock started with a soft kiss first, almost just pressing his mouth against John's. So familiar. And nice.

John moved slowly and lightly. "Remember the first one? Half asleep?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and remembered. He smiled. "I didn't know what I was doing, it all kind of surprised me," he admitted.

"It was perfect," he said between soft kisses. "And graduation night . . .that was prefect."

Sherlock smiled. "Remember the party? I don't -- but I remember what happened when we came home."

"I asked you to dance and you pinned me against the wall instead," he smiled. He kissed Sherlock a bit harder and then pulled back. "I remember what happened after, too."

Sherlock kissed John again. "We're idiots -- all that time together and we waited until the very end."

"I know," John nodded. "I regretted it everyday after that, Sherlock. But I don't want to think about that now. We're together again and I think we should make up for the lost time."

"You mean you want us to get up and dance now?" Sherlock said grinning as he kissed John all over his face. His hands moved down John's back again and rested on his hips. "I feel the muscles in your back -- they feel different than when we were younger.

"My training paid off in more than just saving my life," John said, smiling wider. 

Sherlock stroked back up and down John's muscles again, as he pressed himself against the front of John. "Mmm," he kind of moaned softly. "This is so much nicer than going to sleep on my own."

"I know. That's been going on too long . . . now, let's get back to kissing, please." He pressed his mouth to Sherlock's, kissing him deeply.

Sherlock let John kiss him. It was different than that first night or graduation night, but it was just as good. He kissed John back, letting his tongue slip in to taste him.

John brought his own out as well, exploring Sherlock's mouth with a happy hum. His hand roamed along his shoulders and chest.

Sherlock just let himself sink into the bed and melt against John, kissing and touching him. In a strange way he was grateful he hadn't remembered before -- remembering how safe and good this felt, but not being able to have it would have been horrible. But now he could, now John had come home to him. 

As the kiss continued and became more, John gripped Sherlock's hips and tugged, needing more closeness even though they were already pressed together.

Sherlock moved, shifting his weight onto John a bit. He too just felt the urge to be closer.

John hummed softly and reluctantly broke the kiss. "I want graduation night again," he murmured against his lips. "I want to feel you like that again."

"John -- I . . .," Sherlock started to say something but he wasn't quite sure what it was. He was nervous, nervous in a way he hadn't been then -- maybe because he was younger and a bit drunk -- but mainly because now he was wise enough to know the weight of every choice the two of them ever made. He took a few deep breaths and then reached over to lift John's shirt over his head.

John settled back against the bed and brought his hand to Sherlock's cheek so they could pause. "Only if you want to. We're together now and we have all the time in the world." He smiled and stroked his cheek with his thumb.

"It's just . . . so much time has passed and there's so much in my head . . ." Sherlock said, resting his head down on John's chest. "Then it was just . . . natural because we just knew each other. I still love you but I'm . . . nervous in a way I wasn't then." He put a kiss on his chest. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I know what you mean -- I was leaving then. Now I'm not going anywhere." He pet Sherlock's hair softly. "We can wait. That's okay."

"But I don't want to stop everything -- kissing and stuff. Can I sleep here with you, please?" Sherlock said. He tangled their legs a little as if separating would just be too difficult.

"Of course you can -- I'd be a bit upset of you didn't," John smiled. 

"Will you put your pajamas on, or least take off your trousers? I want it to be a proper sleepover," Sherlock said. He still hadn't moved off John and put some kisses on his neck.

John smiled and nodded, easing away from Sherlock and standing beside the bed. He took off his trousers and his jumper, climbing back into bed with just his pants and undershirt. He curled close to Sherlock again, not liking when they weren't touching. 

Sherlock slipped his arm around John and mindless stroked whatever part of him he could reach. "I look forward to learning more about you, John. You seem the same in many ways, but, of course, your experiences have also changed you." He turned to look over at him. "Always wake me up if you have a nightmare, okay? I want to help if I can."

John nodded. "I am sure you'll be woken up regardless of whether I want you to or not," he admitted. He leaned forward and kissed his mouth lightly. "Thank you."

Sherlock just gazed at John for a bit, still marveling at it all. Then he tucked his head against John's and just lay there, feeling safe and peaceful.

John rest his head against Sherlock and held him close, closing his eyes. "Are you tired? Will you sleep with me?"

"My brain is tired," Sherlock said, "and I want nothing more than to sleep with you." He pulled John towards him and then turned to kiss his mouth softly.

"Not that kind of sleep, pervert," he teased with a smile. He pressed into the kiss, keeping it soft and slow. 

"I wasn't being a pervert," Sherlock said. "We can still kiss before a proper sleep, you know." He turned a little away, pretending to pout.

John kissed his jaw line and his cheek, smiling wider. "Don't be like that. Nothing to be ashamed of," he teased softly. 

Sherlock turned over. "Are you saying you've turned into a pervert while you've been gone? Is the new John Watson a pervert?" He was smiling, even though there was a little bit of him that felt insecure -- it was one thing to fool around as inexperienced kids, but now they were adults with more experience and different expectations.

John laughed softly. "I might be a bit perverted. I hope that won't be a problem," he said. "Don't worry -- I will hold back until you are ready for me to unleash it all." 

"John, now you're scaring me," Sherlock said, laughing. "I'll have to have Mrs Hudson keep an eye on you if I go out."

"No need. You will just come home to find me lounging naked in your chair or something," John grinned, laughing in his tired stupor. 

"That doesn't sound very hygienic, John. You're a doctor, you know!"

"But it's sexy, right?" John said, nudging him like a teenager as he giggled.  

"I don't know about that," Sherlock said. He traced a fingertip over John's lips and then leaned in and kissed them. "This is, though. Very sexy."

"My lips or me naked on your chair?" he smiled, kissing Sherlock between the words. 

"Your lips," Sherlock said. "And my kissing them." He leaned in and this time traced John's lips with the tip of his tongue. He dropped his hand to grip one of John's hips.

John hummed softly and twisted to kiss him properly. "This isn't making me sleepy at all," he murmured. 

"It's not supposed to make you sleepy," Sherlock said, kissing John's mouth. "It's supposed to make being sleepy feel nicer."

"You're making me feel awake," he smiled into the kiss

"All right then," Sherlock said, "Turn over and I'll let you go asleep." When John did, Sherlock spooned him, slipping his hand around John to rest against his belly. He nuzzled against John's shoulder softly. "Asleep yet?" he whispered.

John shook his head. "But this is helping," he murmured, settling into the warmth. He brought his hand up to hold Sherlock's, lacing their fingers loosely.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "Have there been other people you've loved since we last saw each other?"

John shook his head. He hadn't even slept with anyone else since graduation night. "Only you," he murmured softly.

"Me neither," Sherlock said. "When you were lost in my head, I just assumed I'd never feel love towards anyone. I'm glad I remember and I'm glad I still feel it."

"I was waiting until I came back home and I was going to try to find you then. If I couldn't I suppose I would have had to move on . . . thank God for Mike," he said again, still unable to believe how lucky that had been.

"Well, if you weren't such a nice person to stop and talk to him, it would have never happened," Sherlock said. "Mike's not the real reason we were brought together again."

"I tried to run from him," John admitted, biting his lip and fighting a smile. "I tried to run and he caught up to me and my bum leg." He smiled wide.

"You could have lost him if you had really wanted to," Sherlock said, pinching John's hand lightly. "You didn't because you weren't supposed to -- you were supposed to talk to him and then come find me. Which you did. Which helped me find you . . . again."

"Didn't I tell you life had a way of fixing these things?" John asked, smiling softly.

"I guess," Sherlock said. "I suppose you were always the more optimistic between the two of us."

"One of us had to be," he smiled.

"And are you wisely or stupidly optimistic we'll be okay now?" Sherlock asked. "We're not kids anymore, even if I still sometimes behave like one. Do you think we'll be able to be together as adults?"

"I don't see why not. You love me and I love you and I think we will be just fine," John said. "Just because it might get hard doesn't mean you give up."

"I'm not planning on giving up, John Watson," Sherlock said, squeezing him tight.

"Good. Now, if we're not going to be kissing let's go to sleep so that we can get to the tomorrow kissing faster," he smiled.

"All right, but can we still stay like this? I know it's ridiculous but I just want to keep touching you. Is that okay?" Sherlock said, pressing against John just a little more.

"Of course we can. I would prefer we stay like this as well."

Sherlock pressed a kiss on the back of John's neck. This was not how he thought today would end but he was so glad for what had happened. He was able to fall into a deep sleep, deeper than he'd slept in years.

John smiled at the kiss and relaxed, feeling himself doze off. For the first time since he'd come home he didn't have nightmares. He didn't dream at all -- just slept soundly in Sherlock's arms.

When Sherlock woke up, it was John's face he saw before him. "John," he whispered, not entirely sure he wanted to wake him, "it's still true. We found each other." He leaned over and put a barely-there kiss on John's forehead.

John's face twitched lightly but he stayed asleep, blurred images now moving behind his eyes. He couldn't make anything out but it was nice and he didn't want it to leave.

Sherlock watched John for a bit and then he kissed his mouth this time, knowing it was likely to wake him up but kind of not caring, because he felt like he had a huge secret that he just had to share with someone. "John," he said quietly.

John hummed softly to show he was awake and listening, keeping his eyes closed with a small sigh. 

Sherlock smiled as well and put kisses over John's face. "Good morning," he whispered into his ear. Then he grabbed John's hand and pressed it against his erection. "I have a surprise for you," he said cheekily.

John's eyes flew open and he gazed at Sherlock, the message finally getting to his hand and making his fingers curl lightly. "You do, don't you?"

"Don't blame the victim, John," Sherlock said, smiling. "It's your fault."

John palmed him slowly, waking up a bit more now. "And you say I'm a pervert," he smiled. "Is my unconscious body always going to make you hard?"

"You weren't unconscious, just sleeping. A subtle difference but only one makes me a pervert," Sherlock said, rocking his hips slightly against John's hand.

John palmed harder, leaning in to kiss his neck lightly. "You're a very sexy pervert," he smiled.

"Whatever," Sherlock said. He reached a hand down to grip John's hip. He made a soft noise. "That feels nice," he said.

John slid his hand up a bit and slipped it into his pajamas to grip him properly as he stroked.

Sherlock dropped his head slightly, pressing his forehead against John's. "I like this, I like how you're touching me," he said softly. 

"It's the first time," he realised quietly. "M'glad it's good."

"Not the last, I hope," Sherlock said. "Can I touch you?"

"Oh yes," John murmured, nodding softly. "Yes please."

Sherlock slipped his hand inside John's pajamas, wrapping his long fingers lightly around him. He remembered graduation night, but this was different -- more intimate. He started a soft, slow stroke to match the way John was touching him.

John moaned softly, pushing his hips into Sherlock's hand. "We really should have done this sooner," he murmured.

"Maybe, but then we wouldn't have this moment and this is a very good moment, John Watson," Sherlock said, leaning in to give John a kiss.

John hummed into the kiss. "Yes, this is very nice," he agreed. He moved his hand to match Sherlock's.

Sherlock let out a long exhale. "Fuck, that feels good," he moaned softly, closing his eyes and concentrating on the feeling. He shifted his legs a little, he was starting to feel a powerful urge. "I think you're going to make me come, John," he said, pressing his mouth against John's neck and sucking on his skin.

John huffed out a breath and tilted his head. The words Sherlock used coiled the heat in his stomach. "M-me too," he said.

Sherlock pressed into John, pushing him back a bit on the bed. "Don't stop," he panted as he sped up his stroke a bit. He swiped his hand over John's tip, spreading the precome, making his movement smoother. His hips were rocking and he could feel the electricity building within in. 

"Never," John breathed, speeding up his hand to match Sherlock. He found his lips, kissing Sherlock a bit sloppily through the panting.

"John," Sherlock gasped, "I'm going to --" but before he could finish the sentence, his body jerked and he came into John's hand and over his belly. He tried to keep his hand moving on John, wanting to make him come as well. "John," he said again, over and over.

"Oh fuck," John moaned, watching him lose control. He was gorgeous. Seconds later John was coming into Sherlock's hand, moaning his name and breathing heavily. He found Sherlock's mouth and kissed him hard.

Sherlock rolled off John and slumped on the bed next to him. He took a deep breath in and then turned to look at John. "That was a nice way to wake up," Sherlock said, smiling. He leaned over and kissed him. "Good morning, John Watson."

John chuckled and turned onto his back. "Good morning, Sherlock." He smiled and reached for his hand.

Sherlock curled up around him. "We need to clean up our mess, but I don't want to get out of your bed yet," he said, smiling.

"In a bit," John said. "Will I always wake up to such nice surprises?" He smiled.

"I can't make any promises about that," Sherlock said, "to be honest, I haven't woken up with one of those since I was a teenager."

John chuckled softly. "It was nice," he murmured.

"You're nice," Sherlock said, nuzzling John's neck.

John tilted his head a bit and grinned as Sherlock buried himself there. Dealing with Mycroft was going to be a pain later but now that Sherlock remembered, he wouldn't have to face him alone. He'd have reinforcements -- and a good one at that. Whatever Mycroft had to throw at them could barely compare to what John felt now. After so long apart, nothing could ever eclipse the happiness of their being back together again.


End file.
